


The Anthology

by jankmusic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Break Up, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Pregnancy, Romance, Sleepwalking, Teenlock, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:38:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 35,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jankmusic/pseuds/jankmusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories about the lives of Sherlock Holmes and his friends, family, and pathologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Like Moriarty

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock!
> 
> Also, these stories are prompt fills from Tumblr. You can find me at jankysfanfiction.tumblr.com if you ever want to drop by and see what I've been up to, or if you want to leave a prompt! :)
> 
> This prompt is from pinksugarcomicattack on Tumblr: How about a story how Molly (and Greg?) find out about Janines cover storys about her sexlife with Sherlock?

Molly Hooper tried not to glare at the newspapers that were on the foot of Sherlock’s bed; she had no right to comment on his sex life seeing as he didn’t say anything about all the sex she was having with Tom.

But she couldn’t help but feel angry.

“It’s all rubbish, Molly.”

Molly jumped and turned around to see Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway to Sherlock’s hospital room. Molly sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care one way or another.” She watched as Lestrade pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room. He plopped down in the only other empty seat in the room and picked up the paper.

“Shag-A-Lot-Holmes. Really?” he said with a snort, glancing through the paper. He glanced at Molly from the corner of his eye and saw her chewing her bottom lip, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. “You really don’t think Sherlock had the time to do all of that.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Molly said sharply, ripping the paper out of Lestrade’s hands and crumbling it up. She tossed it over her shoulder. “Why isn’t anyone talking about how he used Janine?”

“She _did_ get even by selling the story and getting money—”

Molly shook her head. “And that makes it okay for him to use her like that? You can’t honestly believe that falling in love with a manipulative bastard and later finding out he was just using you to get to someone else is equivalent to making a bit of money.”

Lestrade was quiet a moment, and then he whispered, “No.”

Molly laughed bitterly, dropping her head into her hands and clutching her hair tightly. “He’s just like Moriarty, isn’t he?” Lestrade spluttered beside her, unable to form a complete sentence. “Moriarty used me to get to Sherlock, remember?” she said harshly, sitting up and looking at Lestrade. Tears brimmed her eyes at the not so distant memories. “He took me on three lovely dates and treated me better than Sherlock ever did back then. I didn’t even have the pleasure of a monetary compensation; instead I had weeks of counseling and going through the most terrifying interrogation with his bloody brother.”

Lestrade went quiet, realization dawning on him, and Molly looked away, staring out the window instead. She could sense Lestrade’s concern for her and his anger towards Sherlock. After sitting in silence for a few moments, Lestrade placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what to say, Molly,” he whispered.

“Getting manipulated by him isn’t easy, Greg,” she said softly. “He used to complement me and butter me up to get what he wanted before, and yeah, I know I count and that I matter _now_ , but there’s always a piece of me that thinks it’s all an act so he can keep getting what he wants. His entire livelihood is based on the cases he solves, and what kind of life would he lead if he didn’t have access to the morgue, to the lab…to me?” She wiped at her eyes daintily. “So no, it doesn’t matter whether he had sex with Janine a million times or never; it doesn’t excuse the fact that he exploited a woman for his own personal gain.

“He knows better, Greg. But he reverted back to his manipulative ways, the drugs…to being a right bastard, and that is much, much worse than what Janine did to him.”

“You’re right, of course,” Lestrade said. “Blaming the victim is poor human conduct, and in fact, terrible police work, and I apologize for even thinking that Janine was level with him.”

Molly nodded her head, silently accepting his apology. The two of them continued to sit in silence for the rest of their visit, before Lestrade stood up. “Are you interested in a cuppa?”

Molly shook her head. “Not really. I’ve got some beer in the fridge that Tom left.”

“Are you inviting me over?” Molly nodded her head. “Can we pick up some takeaway? I’m starving.”

“Sounds good. I’ll send John a text. He needs a break from his near constant nightly vigil, anyway.”

With a sigh, Molly stood up and donned her coat. She looked at Sherlock for a moment and then sighed, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his cheek. When she stood up straight, Lestrade was standing at the door.

“He might be a bastard, Molly,” he began, glancing at Sherlock’s sleeping form. “But he’s nothing like Moriarty.”

Molly sucked in a deep breath. “I know,” she whispered, swiping her fingers through his matted curls. “He’s just an idiot, and I love him, so…” She finally turned away from him and followed Lestrade out of the room, taking comfort in his gentle embrace outside the hospital room.

_Fin._


	2. A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: Sherlolly- Sherlock shows his and Molly's son crime scene photos of murders and when Molly finds out she's furious at her husband.

Molly Holmes returned from her short trip to the grocery early in the morning. She shoved her keys into her pocket and then leaned down to pick up her bags. “I couldn’t find the tomatoes you needed for that experiment, but I did find the pickles!” she called, walking up the stairs with her hands laden with groceries. When Sherlock didn’t respond, she dropped the shopping in the kitchen and went to investigate in the living room.

She didn’t have to go far.

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa with three year old Alfie Holmes, and they were looking over…

“Are those crime scene photos?” Molly asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alfie was the first to look up, grinning broadly at Molly. “Mummy! Dead people!”

“ _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_!” Molly bellowed, her hands tightening into fists. Alfie flinched and his eyes widened. He cuddled closer to Sherlock, who was still looking down at the photographs.

Molly took a deep breath and relaxed her fists. “Alfie, please, please, _please_ go downstairs and see if Mrs. Hudson has any biscuits.” Sending Alfie downstairs to Mrs. Hudson in search of biscuits was code for, _“Mummy and Daddy need to talk about something serious in private.”_ Most of the time, it meant they needed to discuss something work related and it wasn’t appropriate for Alfie’s ears.

“O-okay.” Alfie said, sending one look to his father before climbing off the sofa. Before he could scurry past Molly, she stopped him, gathering him up in her arms and smothering him with kisses.

“It’s alright. You’re not in trouble, sweetheart.”

With a grin on his face, Alfie skipped across the sitting room and then began his perilous journey down the steps and to his Gran’s flat.

Molly waited until she was certain that Alfie was out of earshot before she rounded on Sherlock Holmes, her hands on her hips. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock dropped the photos and Molly saw that her son had been looking at crime scene photos of people—at least Sherlock had the decency to show their son photos without multitudes of stab, gunshot, or festering wounds. It looked like the men and women who died of poisonings; she conducted their post mortems.

“He was helping me with a case!”

“HE’S THREE YEARS OLD, SHERLOCK!” Molly said, stomping her foot. “We’ve talked about this. No dead people until he’s at least thirteen. Seeing graphic imagery like that could affect how he behaves when he’s older!”

“Seriously Molly,” Sherlock said, picking up the photos, paying more attention to them than his wife. “When I was his age, I had seen worse.”

“Liar! You were pretending to be a bloody pirate and playing with your dog! I know for a fact you didn’t get involved with crime until you were eight—”

“Seven!” he corrected.

“I can’t believe you…” Molly growled, before throwing her hands up in defeat. “I’m leaving before I say or do something I’ll regret later.”

Sherlock looked up in time to see Molly disappear down the steps, slamming the door to their flat behind her.

\-----

Sherlock Holmes had seen Molly angry before.

But this was different.

She had never been this _furious_ , this angry with him that she left the flat without telling him where she was going. She refused to answer his texts or his phone calls, and it was taking a lot of energy to not contact Mycroft to locate her because they didn’t live in a danger free world and his family was always at risk to getting kidnapped or hurt.

Finally, long after Alfie was fed, bathed, and in his bed, did Molly return. She didn’t say one word to Sherlock, just quietly walking up the stairs to her son’s room, where Sherlock presumed she was going to kiss him and make sure he was properly tucked into his bed.

Sherlock waited for her to return, and just when he thought she was going to be sleeping in Alfie’s room, he heard her soft footsteps down the stairs. But instead of sitting across from him in John’s chair like he expected her to, she bypassed him totally and went straight to their bedroom.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, his hands on the arms of his chair. He waited a full minute before getting up from his seat and going to their room.

Molly was already in her pajamas, and she squeezed passed him to get to the bathroom. He followed her wordlessly and stood in the doorway, watching as she brushed her teeth and washed her face. As she was patting her skin dry, he said,

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” she snapped, pivoting and looking at him. “You’re not sorry, because you don’t understand why I’m angry.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Her shoulders slumped and she leaned back against the sink. “It’s our duty as parents to protect our child from the things we see every single day, Sherlock. If you can’t keep your horrific crime scene photos and evidence from him, how can I trust you as a father?”

Her words were worse than the slaps to the face she delivered all those years ago. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, before saying, “You can trust me as a father, Molly. I would never—”

“What? Never put Alfie in harm’s way? But you already started. I can’t even believe you did that. I had half a mind to pack a bag for the two of us and leave, Sherlock. He’s too young to be exposed to that rubbish.”

“You were going to leave?” he croaked.

“I still might. Now excuse me, I have an early shift in the morning.”

She walked passed him without another word and went back to their bedroom. Before she could close the door and effectively shut him out, Sherlock chased after her and asked, “Why are you so angry?”

“Because!” she said shrilly, turning away from him. “When I was three, I was visiting my Gran and she died in the middle of our nap. I spent hours trying to wake her up, and I had night terrors for weeks afterwards, Sherlock. Weeks! We can’t expose Alfie to that because it isn’t right!”

When her shoulders began to quake, Sherlock immediately closed the distance between them; he wrapped his arms around her tightly and whispered, “I am sorry, so sorry. I won’t ever do it again, Molly. I promise. Not even when he’s old enough. Not even when he’s forty!”

“But do you u-understand why I’m upset?” she choked out against his shoulder.

“Yes,” he murmured, because he did know what it was liked to be plagued with night terrors; he experienced them frequently taking down Moriarty’s network. “Alfie is much too important. And you’re important too.” He could feel Molly sag against him, and he tightened his hold on her, taking most of her body weight.

For a long time they stood quietly in their bedroom until they heard a tired voice ask, “Mummy? Why is Mummy upset?”

“Because Daddy is an idiot,” Sherlock said, very gently pulling away from Molly. Molly chuckled softly and stepped away from Sherlock, sitting down on the edge of their bed. Alfie took a few hesitant steps into the room before Molly opened her arms and he bounded towards her, throwing himself into her embrace.

“Want to sleep with us tonight, Alfie?” Sherlock asked, walking around the room to change into his pajamas. He heard a mumbled reply from his son that he assumed was a rather enthusiastic, “Yes!”

After changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth, and making sure the flat was all locked up, he made his way back to his bedroom. Molly and Alfie were already in bed. Sherlock kissed Alfie on the top of his head and then leaned across him to kiss Molly softly before properly climbing into bed and snuggling with his family.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Starlightafterastorm: Sherlolly prompt! Molly's always been a very tactile person. She needs touch and she needs to feel. She tries to curb it, but of course Sherlock knows. Sherlock always knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, by far, is my favorite thing I've ever written! Such a beautiful prompt, and I worked hard on doing it justice!

Three times Molly Hooper’s habit of touching people was brought to Sherlock’s attention, and the one time he brought it to hers.

* * *

 

1.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper shared a microscope and computer at St. Bart’s. Often times, they orbited around each other without the need to talk, but Sherlock noticed early on that Molly couldn’t go longer than ten minutes without touching him.

It was never inappropriate, and to his knowledge, she was never aware of it. A hand on his shoulder as she leaned closer to the microscope to view his specimen, a hand on the small of his back as she squeezed passed him, all very innocent and gentle touches.

“You touch me frequently,” Sherlock commented, when her hand had strayed to his shoulder for a few seconds longer than usual.

“What?” Molly asked absentmindedly, pulling away from their microscope. It took her a moment to realize her hand was on his shoulder, and she wrenched it away. “Sorry! Sorry! I know you don’t—I mean it’s not appropriate to—coffee? Are you interested in a coffee? Black, two sugars!” she squeaked before fleeing the room.

She didn’t give Sherlock enough time to say he doesn’t exactly _mind_.

2.

Sherlock had no intentions of attending the Annual Scotland Yard New Year’s Eve party, but with a promise from John Watson that he could have free reign over his next three blog entries about their cases, Sherlock could hardly turn him down. Also, he owed him since John had inevitably become his “babysitter” after he identified Irene Adler’s body at St. Bart’s. John even cancelled his plans for the holiday to keep his eye on Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes at the sentiment.

But just because he said he would go didn’t mean that he had to participate, which was why he found himself backed into a corner, nursing a beer and observing the people around him.

They were all drunk.

Everyone.

Then his eyes landed on a new arrival.

Molly Hooper.

His eyes swept over her form calculatingly ( _he refused to acknowledge that it was more appreciatively than anything_ ); she was dressed in a simple dark red dress, the sleeves going to her elbows, black leggings, and black boots, a complete 180 from the outfit she wore at his Christmas party just a few days beforehand.

He watched as she moved amongst the crowd, greeting the people she knew with kisses on the cheek, brief hugs, or small waves. But other than that, she kept her hands to herself.

Sherlock was curious as to why she was making such an effort to appear… _normal_. It seemed like every time she was about to reach out and touch someone’s arm, shoulder, or back, she would hesitate and then smooth her hands over her dress. She had never been aware of her touching habit…and then he came to the realization that the amount of touching she did in front of him decreased exponentially after he mentioned that she touched him frequently. “Does she think her habit of touching is…wrong?” he murmured to himself quietly.

His stomach twisted in irritation ( _not jealousy_ ) when he saw a clearly inebriated John Watson wrap an arm around her shoulders. Instead of pushing him away like he expected her to, she wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned into his touch as he told a funny story or joke or something equally as inane.

Sherlock discarded his beer and left before he had to witness Molly fall for John Watson’s charms.

_(Later, he was pleased to find out that Molly left well before midnight and didn’t share a New Year’s kiss with anyone.)_

3.

“You’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Molly Hooper.”

“You’ve been shot.”

“I jumped off a building once.”

He opened his eyes slowly to see Molly sitting on the edge of her seat beside him, looking worse for wear. Dark circles were beneath her eyes and her bottom lip had seen a lot of abuse from her teeth. His eyes fluttered closed again as he began his descent into morphine induced sleep.

“I slapped you three times the last time I saw you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes again, fighting against the sleep that his body desperately needed. “Yes, but you have no idea how much I needed it.”

He watched as she repositioned herself in the chair, pulling her legs up to the edge of the seat and wrapping her arms around them tightly. She stared straight ahead as she whispered, “That could have been the last thing I ever—”

“Well it wasn’t!” Sherlock interrupted, narrowing his eyes. Molly opened her mouth to speak then she slammed her jaw shut. He could see her worrying her lip and tighten her grip on her knees. “Do what you must,” he said.

“W-what?”

He turned his hand so it was palm side up and offered it to Molly. For a full five seconds she just stared at it, and then she latched onto his hand as if her life depended on it.

Sherlock fell asleep to the realization that this was the first non-slap or kiss on the cheek related touch from Molly Hooper since he left to take down Moriarty’s network.

He missed it.

+1

Sherlock Holmes paced outside an old abandoned warehouse, annoyed that he had to stay outside in the dark when John, Lestrade, and the rest of Scotland Yard was allowed to infiltrate the warehouse. He had a direct connection to John through an earpiece, so he was able to hear what was going on, at least.

Three days ago, Molly Hooper failed to show up for her shift at St. Bart’s. It was obvious that she had been taken unwillingly from her flat, and Sherlock, along with John, Lestrade, Mycroft, and when baby Watson was sleeping, Mary, all worked on finding her location.

It took three days, but they finally found her in a heavily guarded warehouse.

Sherlock could hear gunfire and he had to force himself to stay outside; he didn’t have a gun, a bullet proof vest, and he was at a significant disadvantage of not knowing how many men were inside.

After nearly twenty minutes of waiting, he heard John Watson say, “We found her, Sherlock.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and didn’t move a muscle until he saw John and Lestrade leaving the building, the Detective Inspector carrying Molly in his arms. She was only in her knickers, and her arms were bound behind her back and at her ankles.

The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet, so it was up to John to determine her injuries. Lestrade carefully placed her on the ground, and Sherlock was at her side in seconds. “She was in some type of sensory deprivation…room,” John said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a knife. He began cutting through the ropes that bound her hands and feet together. “She’s in shock, hasn’t spoken a word.”

When her limbs were free, Sherlock got down on his knees in front of her and removed his coat. “Molly, look at me.” Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring straight ahead. John and Lestrade each began rubbing her arms and legs, trying to increase the circulation.

“Molly, come on,” he urged softly. When she gave no indication that she heard, he carefully draped his coat over her shoulders. Then he picked up her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Molly, look, I’m here. You can feel me, touch me. Molly!”

She began to blink, responding to the warmth of Sherlock’s touch. He picked up her other hand and placed it on top of his head. “Feel my hair, Molly. It’s real, and my coat is scratching against your skin. I know you’re a tactile person, so feel!” he demanded.

After a few moments, Molly began to tremble. “Sh-Sherlock?” she asked.

“Yes?”

And then she leaned against him heavily. He wrapped his arms around her firmly and reveled in her tight grip of his hair. With one hand still in his hair, she used the other to smooth down his back and she kept whispering, “You’re real, you saved me, you’re real,” over and over. Sherlock just tightened his grip on her, knowing his touch kept her grounded.

When her trembling began to subside, she tried to pull away from him, embarrassed, but Sherlock refused. “I need this as much as you do, Molly Hooper,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. “I will never let you go, if I can help it.”

She sagged against him, and Sherlock listened to her even breaths as they waited for the ambulance to arrive.

_Fin._


	4. Cheer Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: Sherlolly prompt! Established relationship. Molly feels really insecure about the way she looks and Sherlock notices and tells her all the things he loves about her <3

“Molly, can I listen to your—oh— _oh_.”

Molly looked up from the book she was reading to see her husband in his pajamas, his dressing gown open. Clutched in one hand was the stethoscope that he pilfered from John Watson weeks beforehand and in the other hand was a bowl with only the lemon and blackcurrant jelly babies.

That had been Molly’s particular craving lately.

“Oh?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, walking back into the kitchen and returning without the bowl. “Can I listen to the baby for a bit?”

Molly couldn’t help but smile; since first discovering that he could faintly hear the baby’s heartbeat through the stethoscope at 22 weeks, Sherlock had taken to listening every few days to her belly when he needed something to focus on. He wasn’t always successful at hearing it, but he could hear Molly’s heartbeat which was just as comforting.

She marked the place in her book and placed it on the small table beside her before she slowly got to her feet. Sherlock was at her side in an instant, placing his hands on her hips to steady her. Only 25 weeks pregnant, her body was already trying to adjust to her change of gravity, and she occasionally lost her balance.

When she was steady, Sherlock laced fingers with her and slowly led her to their bedroom. Before she could climb onto the bed, Sherlock easily undid the zip and button on her trousers. “It’s easier without all these in the way,” he said, as he on tugged on her clothes.

Self-consciously, she tugged her trousers down and then removed her top. Just in her knickers, she clambered onto the bed and rested her back against the headboard. Sherlock dropped his dressing gown and followed Molly onto their bed, settling beside her.

“You know,” Sherlock said, tracing imaginary shapes onto her protruding belly. “I once told John Watson that beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models.”

“A huh,” Molly murmured, looking down at Sherlock.

“I’ve deduced that when you were in school and even in Uni, you were surrounded by women who spent a lot of time on their appearance.” Molly swallowed thickly and nodded her head. She wasn’t sure where Sherlock was going with this current sequence of deductions, but it wasn’t necessarily doing anything for her self-esteem, which had been at rock bottom for the past few days. “You lost your mother at quite an early age and were surrounded by your father, his brother, his friends, and your counterparts in the field have mostly been men, correct?”

“Yes. Sherlock, what are—”

“Luckily,” he said, interrupting her, “When I was growing up, my role models included scientists, mathematicians, and my mother. And she was—is quite pretty. So it is safe to deduce that I have a pretty concrete impression of what beauty is, and you, Molly Holmes, are the definition of beautiful.”

“What?”

“You see,” he said, placing the stethoscope on the bedside table and shifting around until he was kneeling beside her. “You have the brain of a scientist, which is extravagant. When you’re working in the morgue or the lab, you’re absolutely glowing because you are quite confident in what you’re doing. My skills are no match to yours.”

Molly’s lips trembled as she tried not to smile and cry at the same time.

“Your ability to love unconditionally rivals no one. You love me despite my flaws, my failings, and my irritating habit of deducing inappropriately.” He pressed two fingers against her beating heart and he felt her take a shuddering breath. “Your breasts are lovely, of course,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her chest. Molly snorted and wiped at her eyes as tears leaked from the corners of them.

“And of course, how can I not mention this?” he whispered, scooting down the bed until he was even with her belly. “You’re carrying my offspring, and if that doesn’t meet the definition of beautiful, it’s wrong.” He pressed a series of against her stomach, huffing a quiet laugh when one of his kisses was met with an incessant tapping against his lips; obviously the baby wanted attention too.

He looked up when Molly sniffled and his soft smile quickly melted away to a look of concern. “Did I do something wrong? Or is this one of those hormone things?”

“N-no!” Molly choked out, shaking her head. “You’re just being a really good husband right now. Can we cuddle?”

Sherlock quickly scrambled up the bed and gathered Molly in his arms. He pressed a kiss against her cheek and sighed softly when Molly burrowed her head against his chest. “I love your hair too. It’s soft and a nice distraction when I can’t stop thinking. I like to run my fingers through it. And I like your knees because they’re ticklish and you have such a wonderful giggle, and I’ve regretted every moment I’ve ever told you not to tell jokes because I missed out on opportunities to hear that laugh. And you have very symmetrical feet and _cute_ little toes that I hope our baby possesses because mine are long and bony. And I love your nose. And when you get freckles from being in the sun for even a few minutes. And I just, I just love you, Molly Holmes. You make me incredibly happy, and I hope I do the same to you.”

Molly sniffled and nodded her head against his chest. “I love you too, and you make me incredibly happy as well.”

He kissed the top of her head and smiled. “Do not expect this gushing of sentiment every day or I’ll soon become a romantic sod and you’ll never have your Sherlock again, but rather a poor copy of a man madly in love with his wife.” He hugged her tighter when she laughed. “I’m just a _high functioning sociopath_ madly in love with his wife, don’t get the two confused.”

“Whatever you say, Sherlock,” Molly whispered, finally pulling away from his chest. “Want to try and listen to the heartbeat now?”

“No, I’m fine just like this,” he said, tugging her back to his chest.

The two spent the rest of the evening exchanging sweet kisses and caresses until Molly fell asleep in the arms of her _high functioning sociopathic_ husband who was madly in love with his wife.

_Fin._


	5. Saving Myself the Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: Sherlolly yay! Sherlock and Molly are in a relationship. Irene comes back one day and Molly's afraid Sherlock's going to leave her for Irene so she breaks up with him to save herself the pain. Sherlock is hurt by this and goes to Baker st. to find John and tell him what happened. John tells him the real reason why Molly broke up with him and Sherlock runs to Molly's flat so she can tell Molly hoe wrong she was because he only has eyes for his pathologist. Angsty and then fluffy ending.:3

Of course _it_ would happen on a day when she was feeling pretty inadequate in the first place.

Molly Hooper had been passed up for the Head of Pathology Department at St. Bart’s hospital over a man who had more seniority but less skill than her. Mike Stamford had tried to break the news as easily as he could; he was obviously against the decision made by the hospital, but that didn’t make Molly feel better.

She managed to finish her shift without losing her composure, and she rushed home, taking a cab instead of the tube. Just as she reached her flat, she got a text from Sherlock.

_‘I need to talk to you, when convenient.—SH’_

Molly’s brow furrowed and she felt a sudden clenching around her heart. It had been a long time since Sherlock ended a text with his initials; since beginning their relationship, he found the practice unsentimental. She shakily responded with, _‘I can pop over after I take a shower.’_ She leaned her forehead against the door and waited for his response.

_‘Good.—SH’_

After a few seconds she pulled away from her door and fished her keys out of her pocket. She stepped into her flat and turned on the light, closing the door softly behind her. Not bothering to put her bag away since she was going to leave in a bit anyway, she dropped it by the door and she managed to hang up her jacket before walking down the short hallway that led to the rest of her flat.

She stopped in her tracks when a vaguely familiar person appeared in her vision.

The Woman Sherlock recognized from not-her-face was sitting primly on the edge of her sofa, her hand resting on Toby who was purring enthusiastically. It looked like she was holding him down.

“Ahh, Doctor Hooper,” The Woman said upon noticing Molly’s appearance. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She stood to her feet and walked towards Molly, who backed up against the wall.

The first thing Molly wanted to ask was, “How did you get into my flat?” followed by, “I thought you were dead?” and finally, “Why do you know my name?”

All she managed to say was, “Umm…hello. Tea?”

“No thank you. I just wanted to have a bit of a chat.”

“A chat?” Molly squeaked, flinching when one well-manicured hand caressed her cheek “About what?”

“Oh, you know who I would like to talk about,” she said with a smile before turning back and sitting on her sofa. Toby was more interested in Molly than The Woman and quickly abandoned her on the sofa. He scampered to Molly and nuzzled her feet and ankles, eager to get his supper.

“I’m not quite sure why you’re here, Ms. Adler?”

“Irene, please. And to have a bit of a girly chat, of course.” She abandoned the sofa to look at the photographs prominently displayed on the shelves that covered one entire wall of her flat.

“I still don’t…?” Molly trailed off, her voice trembling.

“You love him, don’t you? What a shame…” She ran her hand over a photo that was the center of the collection; it was of her and Sherlock at John and Mary’s daughter’s first birthday party, taken just a few short weeks ago. Mary had given Molly and Sherlock each a copy of the photo as a gift.

“I—I—”

“He hasn’t changed much physically since I last saw him. More laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, for certain.” Molly winced at the tone of her voice, quickly reminded that she and Sherlock shared a past, one she wasn’t exactly privy to. She knew what mattered, she supposed, but obviously her being alive wasn’t something Sherlock trusted her with.

“I would like it if you left my flat, Ms. Adler.” Irene pivoted in her heels and Molly was surprised to see that she did so gracefully. She quickly backed up towards her door and opened it.

“You misunderstand my purpose of being here—”

“No, I think I understand perfectly well, thank you. You’ve made your deductions and I would like you to leave. _Now._ ”

\-----

Not five minutes after Molly was left alone, she slipped her coat back on and left her flat, determined to see this through. She was certain she knew what Sherlock wanted to talk about; the sudden appearance of his not-dead-former-girlfriend was the only clue she needed.

She took a cab to Baker Street, asking politely for the cabbie to wait for her before she climbed out of the vehicle. She glanced up to the windows facing the street and she saw Sherlock standing there, his violin in playing position but his bow at his side.

He tilted his head once, and Molly knew that meant the door was unlocked.

With a deep breath, she pulled herself together and opened the door to 221B Baker Street. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Her knees were trembling as she made her way up the stairs.

It was suddenly so clear now.

Sherlock had never once said he loved her, even though Molly had said it to him more times than she could remember. He obviously didn’t trust her enough to know about Irene Adler’s existence, which meant he was keeping it a secret for a reason. She was The Woman, after all. Molly Hooper wasn’t a stupid woman; she understood that Irene Adler had a significant place in Sherlock’s Mind Palace.

And she knew she had to do this to save herself the pain. The day was horrendous enough as is; she didn’t need Sherlock Holmes breaking her heart to add to the grief she was already feeling. She would make this easier for the both of them.

She had to.

She stepped into his flat and her eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock facing her. His hair was wild, as if he had run his fingers through it a million times, he was pale, and his hand was twitching at his side, all signs that he was under a bit of stress. Cups of tea littered the sitting area, as if his favorite comforting brew wasn’t enough for him.

Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes were not the only ones with the ability to deduce.

“Ahh, Molly. I wasn’t expecting you so soon!” he said, his eyes looking right over her head and through the doorway. Molly felt like she had been punched in the gut; he couldn’t even look at her.

This is definitely the right thing to do.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, her voice trembling. He didn’t seem to notice as he suddenly began pacing in front of the sofa.

“What? Hmm? Tea?” he asked, pausing for just a moment. “I can put the kettle on, if you like.”

She stared at him for a moment, taking him in one last time. He was a beautiful man, and she was certain she wouldn’t be seeing him after tonight. There were other hospitals in London that had openings in their pathology departments, and a few universities had even contacted her over the past few months. She could work somewhere else and try to forget about the most perfect year of her life.

“Sherlock, I can’t do this anymore.”

Sherlock halted, and his head whipped up to look at her. Molly dropped her gaze, fighting the tears that were clouding her eyes. She took a shuddering breath and then squared her shoulders. “It’s not working, and I think it would be better if we just called it quits before things got too serious.” She sniffled and looked up, surprised by the bewildered look on his face. “If you could avoid the hospital for a bit until I get everything sorted, that would be great, just so we don’t have to cross paths awkwardly.” She tried to laugh but it came out as a sob instead.

Not able to be in his presence anymore, she turned quickly. “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

She managed not to start crying until she was in the safety of the cab that was waiting for her.

\-----

_‘I’m having a heart attack.—SH’_

John Watson rolled his eyes at the text message on his phone. He glanced up as Mary stepped into the sitting room after putting their daughter down for bed. “Sherlock?” she asked, nestling onto the sofa beside John. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“They spend so much time together at Baker Street that she might as well live with him. It’s just a formality, asking her. He’s just nervous.”

_‘You’re not having a heart attack. You’re just nervous.’_

Mary giggled and nuzzled his neck. “I can’t believe they’ve been together for almost a year. Time flies, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

John leaned back into the sofa and he and Mary cuddled for a bit before they were startled by the sound of John’s mobile ringing. “He’s calling?” Mary asked.

“Hello?”

_“My symptoms are nausea, sweating, extreme chest discomfort, shortness of breath, and my shoulder and neck ache, but that could be on account that I collapsed and hit the coffee table. Should I call 999?”_

“Jesus Christ! No, stay on the phone with me!” John leapt to his feet and looked at Mary. “Call for an ambulance. Baker Street. He’s really having a heart attack!”

\-----

John made it to Baker Street just as Sherlock was being loaded into the ambulance. “I’m his doctor!” John shouted, before jumping in the back of the vehicle and settling down beside him. He reached for his hand, surprised by how clammy it was, and gave it a squeeze. Sherlock was wearing an oxygen mask, and he opened his eyes to look at John.

“Do I need to call or text anyone?”

He shook his head.

“Not even Molly?”

He shook his head again. Then he shakily lifted the mask from his face. Before John could admonish him, Sherlock said, “She broke up with me.”

And John had the sudden feeling that this wasn’t a heart attack at all, but rather a mixture of a broken heart and panic.

\-----

Three hours later, John’s suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock was released from the hospital with a clean bill of health. They climbed into a cab, Sherlock being oddly mute. John gave the address to Baker Street, and from the corner of his eye he watched as Sherlock curled against the window and closed his eyes.

“Hey…mate…” John began, unsure what he should say. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Did she not want to move in with you? Did you have a row?”

“No. She came over, said it wasn’t working and we needed to break up before it got serious, told me to not go to St. Bart’s, and left.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Sherlock took a shuddering breath, and it was obvious to John that he was under extreme emotional duress when he heard his voice crack as he said, “I do not wish to talk about it anymore, John, _please_.”

“You weren’t keeping secrets from her?”

“She knows everything about me. My faults, my kinks, my weaknesses and strengths. She even knew about my intimate relationship with The Woman.”

John didn’t even know about his intimate relationship with The Woman, but now wasn’t the time to say anything. In fact, John had no idea what to say.

Halfway back to Baker Street, his phone buzzed, and he remembered he was supposed to update Mary on Sherlock’s condition. Instead of being met with a text from his wife, he had a text from a number he didn’t recognize.

_‘It seems I have done more damage than I intended. Please send my apologies to Sherlock.—IA’_

John stared at his phone for a long moment. “Sherlock, who has the initials IA? Anyone we know?”

He was quiet for a moment, and John was about to ask again, when he said, “The Woman.”

John snorted. “Well that’s impossible.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything in response. John turned and stared out the window for several long moments before returning his attention to his phone. If Sherlock was capable of faking his death, surely someone as cunning as the Woman could have done the same… His brow furrowed, and he looked at Sherlock one last time before calling the unknown number.

_“I didn’t expect you to call me, Doctor Watson.”_

“I don’t even want to know how this is possible,” he murmured. “But what did your text mean?” He glanced at Sherlock, and it was obvious he was in his Mind Palace, trying to figure out exactly what went wrong.

_“I gave Doctor Hooper a visit. She misunderstood my intentions, and from what I gathered, she rather abruptly ended her relationship with Mr. Holmes.”_

“What _were_ your intentions?”

_“To meet the woman who managed to capture his heart. To see with my own eyes just how wonderful she was; my contacts do nothing but sing her praises.”_

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know if I can fix this.”

_“I would do it myself, but I do not think my presence is wanted in her flat. She was intimidated by me, and I feel she won’t believe what I have to say.”_

“Were you wearing your battle armor?”

_“No, Doctor Watson. A dress.”_ John hummed and rested his head in his hands. _“She is a sweet and brilliant woman. When the time comes and I’m in London again, I will properly pay her a visit. Again, give my apologies to Mr. Holmes.”_

“Right. Goodbye, then.”

_“Goodbye.”_

John stared at his phone for several long moments and then he looked at Sherlock. “Sherlock?”

He was quiet.

John rested a hand on his shoulder and gave him a shake. “Sherlock!”

“What?” he whispered. He didn’t bother opening his eyes and didn’t move a muscle when John’s hand made contact.

“It seems there has been a giant misunderstanding, and we can fix this.”

\-----

Sherlock’s heart was pounding as he easily picked the locks to Molly Hooper’s flat. Normally at this hour, Molly would be sitting in front of her telly, catching up on the news before going to bed, but when he stepped inside her flat, it was silent and cloaked in darkness.

He couldn’t help but tiptoe down the hallway and towards her bedroom. He flicked on the light expecting to see her curled up in her bed, but it was empty.

Confused, he carefully turned off the light, and paused. If Molly was emotionally upset, she would have returned home and gone to bed. She wasn’t the type of woman to go to a pub and drink her sorrows away, especially if she had to work in the morning.

As he was turning to walk down the hallway, he heard scratching followed by a plaintive cat cry. With furrowed brows, he went to Molly’s spare bedroom and opened the door. Somehow Toby managed to lock himself into the room. He came scurrying out, nuzzling Sherlock’s legs for a moment before dashing in the direction of his cat box.

He peeked into the room, and paused at the sight of Molly, curled up in the bed.

_Why would she sleep in her spare bed if her bedroom is perfectly fine to sleep in?_ He tiptoed into the room and turned on the small bedside lamp on the table beside her, frowning when he saw the obvious tear tracks on her cheeks and the swelling around her eyes.

He knelt down at the side of the bed, gently placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“Molly.”

Her eyes snapped open, and she flew upright. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she reached for her glasses that were beside the lamp. He saw her eyes roving over him, her brow furrowing in anger before her gaze paused on his wrist. He forgot to cut off the hospital bracelet. Then her eyes softened and she looked at him like she always did when he needed a bolt-hole. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “I thought I was having a heart attack.” He refused to mention that he was rushed to the hospital because his heart was broken; his metaphorical heart had only been in existence for a few years and he hardly acknowledged it out loud.

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat her to it. “I apologize. I should have told you about Irene Adler being alive right from the beginning, but I was only trying to keep you and everyone else safe. If it was widely known that people knew she was alive, you all would have become targets to her biggest enemies. You’re already at risk for being in a relationship with me and I didn’t want to make it worse. I truly am sorry.”

“She came back for you,” she whispered, carefully wrenching out of his grasp. “It was obvious that you two shared something special and—”

“She came to meet you, the woman who has my heart, not to take me away.” Tears silently fell down her cheeks. “And even if she came to whisk me away, it doesn’t even matter because I only have eyes for you, and someday, not today, I will tell you the words that you desperately deserve to hear. But it will be under different circumstances, and preferably in my flat.”

Molly choked on a sob and covered her face. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Sherlock easily stood to his feet and sat down on the edge of the unfamiliar bed. He wrapped his arms around his pathologist and very nearly pulled her into his lap. “Your confidence was already low after you were denied the Head of Pathology position, which will be the hospital’s biggest regret come tomorrow when they find out that Rogers has been sleeping with several different members of the Board of Directors. With the unexpected arrival of a woman who was supposed to be dead in your flat, you assumed the worst and tried to end things to save yourself the pain. Honestly, I would have done the same, and I would have probably done a terrible job at it and ruined any chance of a relationship ever happening again between us. Therefore, Molly Hooper, I will not accept your apology because you have nothing to apologize for.

“I knew about your day at Bart’s because Mike Stamford contacted me, which was the reason why I asked you over in the first place. I thought requesting you to move into Baker Street would have been exactly what you needed to cheer you up after the wretched day you had at work.”

He peppered her face with kisses until she stopped crying. “Will you?” he asked, when it fell silent between them.

“Will I move in with you?” she reiterated, wiping at her eyes and pulling away from his chest.

Sherlock nodded his head, once again looking like a nervous wreck.

“Yes,” she said simply, before wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him tightly.

“Brilliant!” he said, hugging her fiercely. He then stood up, still clutching her in his arms. Molly moved her arms around his neck to keep her grip. “Now you really need to rest in a more comfortable bed since you have to work tomorrow.” He began walking to her bedroom, easily carrying her as if she weighed nothing. “And in the morning, after you leave, I’ll begin packing!”

_Fin._


	6. Not So Smart Meat Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: Future fic where a married Sherlock and Molly run into Meat Dagger. May or may not include children.

 “The itinerary for the day is as follows,” Sherlock said, carefully adjusting the straps to the carrier that he was wearing. “We are going on a walk, no longer than three kilometers because you’re still not feeling one hundred percent better. Then Mycroft will send a car and we’ll go straight to the Diogenes Club to have lunch with my parents and brother. Afterwards, if you are still feeling up to it, we’ll go to the Yard so everyone can meet her, and then Lestrade will bring us home. Both Mycroft and Lestrade have a car seat, so we have nothing to worry about in that area. Questions or concerns?”

“None,” Molly said softly, tearing her eyes from the sleeping baby on her chest and looking up at her husband.

Once the carrier was secured to his chest, Sherlock sat down beside Molly, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead before leaning into her side. “Emmeline Rose Holmes, you shouldn’t be sleeping,” he murmured, using one finger to gently stroke the dark hair that encompassed her head. She had hair just like her father.

For a few moments, the small family sat quietly on the sofa, and then Sherlock stood up. “I’ll take her to Mrs. Hudson now, and then I’ll help you down the stairs.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock stood up from the sofa and then very carefully took Emmeline from Molly, cradling her against his chest. Molly had tears that filled her eyes as she watched him carrying her across the room and down the stairs; her body was still regulating hormones and any sweet moment she caught with Sherlock and their daughter almost always brought her to tears.  

After taking a few deep breaths, Molly stood to her feet and gathered up the changing bag and her small purse. She shouldered the small bag and then moved to the stairs. She was met there by Sherlock, and he easily took the changing bag and shouldered it before he and Molly made their way down the stairs, Sherlock helping her along the way.

Once downstairs, and with Mrs. Hudson cooing softly over Emmeline, Molly helped maneuver the baby into the carrier secured to Sherlock’s chest. Then with a goodbye, they left 221B Baker Street.

Molly smiled, her head tilted towards the sun as she and Sherlock strolled down the street. She was still a bit sore, but walking around in the fresh air did wonders for her soul. She giggled when she felt Sherlock’s hand wind around her waist and tugged her into his side.

“Emmeline is enjoying the warm weather,” Sherlock commented, and Molly stood on her tip toes to see Emmeline looking around with sleepy eyes. She blinked tiredly at her mother, and Molly couldn’t help but press a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head.

“Hopefully she’ll be just like Daddy and want to explore outside when she’s a bit older,” Molly commented, glancing up at Sherlock.

“There’s nothing wrong with staying inside and reading.”

“But it was lonely.”

“She’ll never be lonely with parents like us.”

Molly smiled so fully that her face hurt.

They continued walking around for a bit, sometimes talking, sometimes traveling in companionable silence. Emmeline was an angel and only snuffled as she tried to get back to sleep against her father’s chest. When it was close to time for them to text Mycroft to send a car, Molly had to use the loo.

“In there,” Sherlock said, pointing to a restaurant with a public bathroom. “I’m sure Mycroft has been tailing us all morning, so a car will be here by the time you come out.”

Molly nodded her head and walked towards the restaurant. She was easily able to get inside and use the loo. After she finished washing her hands, she stepped out of the loo and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Sherlock on his mobile with one hand protectively across Emmeline.

“Molly?”

Molly jumped and turned around quickly. She felt her heart rate speed up as her eyes met up with someone she would rather not see. She tried to smile politely as Tom came up to her, stopping right in front of her.

“Hi Tom! How are you?”

“Good, good. How are you?”

Molly shuffled her feet, ducking her head a bit. “I’m good. I’ve been a bit busy, lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.” Molly took a breath and held it for a moment. Then she plastered a smile on her face and pointed a thumb over her shoulder. Before she could make her excuses to escape, Tom said, “I see you had a bit of an accident.”

Molly immediately looked down, doing a visual check to make sure she wasn’t leaking through her bra, and one hundred percent certain she didn’t wet herself (she was familiar with the feeling now; pregnancy wasn’t glamorous). Then she looked at Tom, eyebrow arched.

“I’m sorry?”

Instead of answering her question, Tom said, “I read in the papers that you got married a few weeks ago. Things not working out already?”

Again, Molly was too dumbfounded to say anything other than, “I’m sorry?”

Tom glanced at her left hand which was still hanging in midair, thumb over her shoulder, and Molly looked at it too. “Oh, rings?” she whispered, before pulling a wedding band and engagement ring from beneath her blouse; they were hanging on a delicate chain around her neck. “I had a bit of swelling in my hands, so I wear them like this until my body regulates my hormones,” she said automatically. “Well, I have to go, Tom. I’m having lunch with my in-laws and—”

Tom snorted and put his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. Molly’s jaw snapped shut; she was irritated with his interruptions. All she wanted to do was leave the restaurant and join her family for lunch instead of being a somewhat secluded area of a random restaurant with her ex-fiancé. “What?” she snapped.

“It’s just, we’ve only been broken up a year and a half and you’re already married and with a baby! Wasn’t planned, was it?” he said with a sardonic grin on his face.

Molly took a step back. His features were oozing smug satisfaction at how Molly’s situation had turned out, but the joke was on him, Molly thought. She was more happy now than she was the entire time she was with him (even if she and Sherlock were in the midst of sending out “save the dates” for their wedding when she found out she was pregnant, and their small ceremony took place just two weeks before Emmeline was born). She refrained from saying that; once again she just tried to escape. She took another step backwards and said, “Really Tom, this was a nice chat, but I have to go now.”

The irritation was clear in her voice. Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Molly turned on her heel, prepared to leave the restaurant. Before taking two steps away from the quickly spiraling situation, Tom reached out and tugged on her shoulder, forcing her to turn around.

Molly gasped, but as he tried to say something (whether to apologize or be more sarcastic, Molly wasn’t sure) a hand gripped his wrist tightly. “I suggest you let go of her, _Meat Dagger_.” Molly looked up to see Sherlock standing beside her, Emmeline no longer strapped to his chest. Mycroft’s car must’ve arrived and she was already safely in the seat. Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed and he was nearly snarling at the man who put a hand on his wife. “Our nuptials and the conception of our daughter are none of your concern. It would be in your best interest to stop inquiring about our relationship; I would hate to have to injure you further because you couldn’t mind your own business.”

With that, he bent Tom’s wrist away from Molly, keeping it at an odd angle for several agonizing seconds before he finally released it and Tom cradled his injured wrist to his chest. “Come on Molly, Anthea is waiting for us.”

And with that, Sherlock took Molly’s hand in his own and led her out of the restaurant.

“I’ve read that men can be arseholes after a breakup because they’re upset at what they’ve lost; you should ignore him. There is nothing wrong with our situation and he was just being—”

“I’ve had worse run-ins with exes,” Molly interrupted, smiling at Anthea when they stepped out of the restaurant. She was holding Emmeline against her chest, rocking her just slightly. “I’m not concerned about what he said or was implying; I’m very happy with you and Emmeline.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, swiftly bringing her hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Good.”

_Fin._


	7. The Bedroom Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: teenlock sherlolly. Sherlock and Molly have been friends since childhood and Molly doesn't know Sherlock's always had a crush on her. He tells her and they make out and stuff. Awkward fluffy teenlock is what I live for :3

It was quiet in the Holmes residence as Molly Hooper sifted through her notes that were spread out around her. Mrs. Holmes was in her study gathering materials to help Molly with her revision and Mr. Holmes was quietly making dinner behind Molly.

Since her father’s illness had taken a turn for the worst some months before, Molly’s mother spent her weekends with him at the hospital, usually leaving Molly alone at her own home. For the most part, Molly flourished by herself, taking care of her cat and the home and revising, but lately she had been getting a bit lonely. Sherlock had noticed, as he always did, and for the past few weekends she would spend more time at the Holmes residence until it was time for her to go to bed, in which Sherlock, and inevitably John Watson who was always with him, would walk her home only to arrive the next morning bright and early to walk her back to the Holmes residence.

But this weekend, John had invited Sherlock over to his place, and Molly wasn’t invited. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes insisted that Molly spend the weekend in their home regardless, because spending all of her time alone was surely not good for her health. Molly tried to decline politely, but she packed a bag for the weekend that morning and took it to school with her. Sherlock and John escorted her back to his home before running off for their “boy’s weekend”.

Molly sighed and pushed her notes away from her. She was having trouble concentrating, and wasting her time halfheartedly studying for her A levels was useless.

“Molly, what’s wrong?”

Molly turned around slowly, smiling at Mr. Holmes. “Nothing. Just a bit tired.” She shrugged her shoulders and then turned back to her work. After a moment she began packing it all away and then she set aside her backpack. “Is there anything I can do to help, Mr. Holmes?”

He shook his head and smiled affectionately at Molly. “Nope!” he said, popping his “p”. Molly giggled, knowing that that was where Sherlock got his habit from. “What do you usually do Friday nights?”

“Study and sometimes hang out with Sherlock and John, or Mary,” Molly said, getting up from the table and ambling over to Mr. Holmes. He was stirring a pot of spaghetti noodles.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Holmes is the chef in this household,” he commented, eyeing the noodles. “But I make a mean sauce!”

“From a jar?” Molly asked, eyeing the empty jar that was on the counter. She giggled again when Mr. Holmes nudged her with his hip.

“Stop deducing! You’re just as bad as my boys! Off you go! Sit in front of the fire and read a book or something!” he said, shooing her out of the kitchen. Molly giggled and did as she was told, nearly skipping into the next room, her book already in there from her earlier attempts of reading.

After only a few minutes Molly was engrossed in her book so she missed the sound of the door in the kitchen opening, but she was startled when Sherlock Holmes’s gangly form burst into the sitting room. “Molly! I need to show you something!”

His cheeks were pink and his chest was heaving as if he just completed a run. Molly raised her eyebrow, concerned when John didn’t appear behind him. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yes, fine, come on!”

Molly marked her page and stood up, adjusting the skirt to her school uniform. “Where are we going? Do I need my coat?”

“My bedroom!”

Molly’s eyes widened when Sherlock grabbed her by the hand and began dragging her up the stairs and to his bedroom.

She had been his friend for years, she was well aware of what his bedroom looked like, but that didn’t stop the flush from blooming across her cheeks and down her neck as he threw open his bedroom door and stormed inside, closing it once Molly was in his room.

Molly glanced around. His desk and chair were covered with books and papers, so she made her way to his bed and plopped down, crossing her ankles and smoothing her hands over her skirt.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and then ruffled his curls. Molly bit her lip and watched as he repeated this motion two more times before clawing at his tie, which was still around his neck. He normally removed the _abominable_ article of clothing the second he stepped foot out of school.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” Molly asked, jumping to her feet and crossing the room. She swatted at his hands and he dropped them to his sides. “You can trust me,” she added, as she carefully began loosening his tie.

“I’ve always trusted you,” he whispered, stilling her hands, wrapping his fingers around her slim wrists. Molly swallowed thickly. “I like you, Molly Hooper,” he said slowly, and Molly shivered before smiling tightly.

Sherlock always had an odd way of expressing himself. She remembered when John had casually mentioned that Sherlock was his best friend; Sherlock went nearly catatonic for two whole minutes!

“I like you too, always.”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly, his eyes widening just slightly. Molly swallowed again, recognizing the look of sheer terror that was crossing his features; she had only seen it a few times before, namely to do with situations where someone in his family got hurt or when John broke his leg during one of his adventures running around with Sherlock. “Molly, I _like_ you,” he said again, stressing the “like”. Molly tilted her head in confusion, and his brow creased, the look of terror was melting away to the well-recognized look of irritation. “Always, since I was nine years old. You used to have a crush on me, but over the past few months, I’ve noticed that you’re… _different_ , and today John helped me analyze my…feelings. I thought I had a crush on you, but it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple!” He suddenly dropped her wrists and once again ran his hands through his hair.

“You like me?” Molly squeaked, unable to stop the grin from spreading across her cheeks.

“You see, but you don’t observe!” Sherlock admonished, once again closing the distance between them. Molly took a few hesitant steps backwards until her knees were touching the edge of his bed. Sherlock moved his hands, and she could feel them hovering near her hips. “I more than like you, Molly,” he said, ducking his head a bit. Molly watched as his an endearing blush flooded his cheeks.

Quickly, before she lost her courage, she stood on her tip toes and pressed her lips to his, pressing her hands into his shoulders.

Sherlock froze for a moment, as did Molly.

She dropped back down to her feet and took a shaky breath.

“Can I?” Sherlock croaked, and Molly felt the brush of his fingers against her hips. Her eyes widened a fraction and she nodded her head. Sherlock’s hands latched onto her hips and he tugged her closer, his eyes sweeping over her face before he kissed her, as if reassuring himself that this was alright and what she wanted.

When they broke away from the kiss, Molly smiled and took a deep breath. “That was nice.” She gave his shoulders an encouraging squeeze.

“Very nice.” Molly bit her bottom lip, and Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on her mouth. Once again she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Can we do it again…but sitting?”

Molly nodded her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She took one step backwards and sat down on the edge of his bed. Sherlock sat down beside her, stiff and unsure of what he was supposed to do.

The two of them sat awkwardly on his bed for a few moments, before Sherlock blurted out, “Can you unbraid your hair? I’d like to run my fingers through it.”

With shaky fingers, Molly carefully undid the braid, but before she could put her hands in her hair, Sherlock’s hands were already in her long tresses, and then he was kissing her again.

Before she knew it, they were sprawled out on his bed, Sherlock half on top of her, and Molly was toying with the top button of his shirt. “It’s alright,” he breathed, dropping his head to her neck, pressing a series of kisses there. Molly was only able to undo the first two buttons before there was a loud knock on his bedroom door.

Both Molly and Sherlock jumped, Sherlock scrambling to get off Molly and rather successfully falling off his bed and landing hard on his back. Molly squeaked and looked over the edge of the bed, one hand clamped over her mouth.

“Sherlock, do I need to instill an open door or a no girls allowed in the bedroom policy in this house?”

It was Mrs. Holmes. Molly’s eyes widened in mortification. She was invited as a guest into her home, and she was just caught ravishing her son! She was going to get kicked out and his parents would never invite her over again!

“No Mummy,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking a bit.

Mrs. Holmes opened his bedroom door, smiling sweetly at her son and Molly. “Dinner’s done! See both of you downstairs in two minutes!”

She left the bedroom door open, knowing full well that Sherlock and Molly would appear in the kitchen in two minutes, pink cheeked and holding hands. She was anticipating shy glances throughout the meal between the two, and she couldn’t help but grin broadly. This was eleven years in the making, and she was going to enjoy every moment of it.

Mrs. Holmes loved being a mother.

_Fin._


	8. Cupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from starlightafterastorm: I absolutely ADORED the last prompt you wrote that I sent in (Molly being tactile). So I hope you don't mind if I send another? Sherlolly of course. Irene comes to play matchmaker. John and Mary (and everyone else for that matter) approve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> If you're interested in sending me a prompt or popping in and saying hello, visit me at jankysfanfiction.tumblr.com!

All she needs is their blessing, a fool-proof kidnapping, and an over the top rescue. This story is about the three steps Irene Adler took to play matchmaker with Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

* * *

   **Step 1.**  
  
“Does anyone stay dead?”  
  
John Watson was pacing around his living room, trying to keep his anger at bay because whenever he got upset, Mary got upset, and when Mary was upset, baby Scarlett would get upset.  
  
It was a never ending cycle of fussing and crying.  
  
“Rarely.”  
  
John narrowed his eyes at the woman sitting in his chair.  
  
The Woman.  
  
“Do you have a case or something? Why are you here?” he growled out through gritted teeth. The sound of his voice put baby Scarlett on edge and she let out a soft cry. John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose before turning to his wife and gathering the weepy baby into his arms.  
  
Immediately, he felt calm, the weight of his daughter in his arms an immediate stress reliever. He slowed his furious pacing to a gentle circuit around the living room, gently cradling the three month old in his arms.  
  
“Fatherhood suits you, Doctor Watson.”  
  
John couldn’t help but smile as he sat down on the edge of his sofa. Mary laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and leaned around him. “I apologize for his horrific behavior. I’m Mary Watson, his wife. And you are? We weren’t properly introduced, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Irene Adler, a former…client, of Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes.”  
  
Mary’s brows shot up. “You’re Irene Adler? I thought you were dead!”  
  
“I’m afraid my current resurrection needs to be a secret. I shouldn’t even be in the country, but I’m trying to return a favor to Mr. Holmes.”  
  
“A favor?”  
  
“He is the one who saved my life in Karachi all those years ago,” she said with a sigh, her voice a bit wistful.  
  
John’s brow shot up high and Mary breathed, “Oh my God! You slept with him!”  
  
“Mary!”  
  
“Sorry!” Mary smiled apologetically. “It’s none of our business what you and Sherlock got up to in Pakistan. How can we help you with this favor?”  
  
Irene smiled at Mary. “It seems our beloved Detective has fallen for a Miss Molly Hooper—”  
  
“Doctor!” John and Mary each interjected.  
  
“Doctor, apologies, and I don’t necessarily need your help. Your approval is what I’m seeking.”  
  
“Approval for what?” John asked warily.  
  
“To play matchmaker.”  
  
John shook his head. “Absolutely not. You cannot be trusted. I don’t care what happened in Pakistan; I will not be manipulated into some scheme. We’re all at risk because this Moriarty nonsense happening right now, I don’t want Sherlock running off and getting himself killed or something at your beckoning.”  
  
There was a heavy silence in the air, and then John abruptly stood up, careful not to jostle Scarlett as he got to his feet. “I’m putting her down for her nap. When I come back, I want you out of my home.”  
  
John turned on his heel and walked out of the room, walking up the stairs and going straight to Scarlett’s nursery. She woke briefly as he was putting her in her cot, but with a bit of cooing and soft singing, she drifted off to sleep again. John stood over her for a moment, smiling softly.  
  
When he returned to the living room, the Woman was gone, and it was just Mary sitting on the sofa.  
  
She patted the spot beside her. “Have a seat.”  
  
John dropped boneless on the sofa, his head facing Mary. He studied her for a moment, and then he rolled his eyes. “You gave her our blessing and promised to talk me around, didn’t you?”  
  
“I don’t trust her,” Mary said simply, “But I believe she has good intentions. So…trust me.”  
  
With a sigh, John leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Okay, okay.”

* * *

    **Step 2. (Three Days Later)**  
  
“Whatever happens, know she is safe.—IA”  
  
John stared at Mary’s mobile for a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What does she mean?” he asked.  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
Just then, Sherlock Holmes came bursting through the front door, Lestrade hot on his heels. Before John or Mary could say anything, he said, “Molly Hooper has been kidnapped!”  
  
John looked at Mary. “Well…fuck.”

  
\-----

  
  
“I apologize Doctor Hooper. Force was only necessary to ensure that there was a scene made. You’ll have a few bruises, but nothing life threatening. Water?”  
  
Molly blinked her eyes blearily and tried to clear the fogginess surrounding her brain. After a delayed moment, she nodded her head, accepting the straw that was pressed against her lips. She took several deep sips of the cool water before slowing down and pulling away from the cup. As a doctor, she knew she shouldn’t overdo it, especially if she was drugged, which she was suspecting.  
  
“What do you want?” she asked, blinking her eyes, wishing her vision would focus. It took her several long moments to realize that she wasn’t wearing her contacts or glasses, effectively keeping her vision blurry. This was just as good as any blindfold. She tried rubbing at her eyes and winced at the feeling of her arms being tied to the chair she was sitting in.  
  
“I just wanted to have a chat.”  
  
“A chat?” Molly licked her lips, wishing she could have a bit more water; she was absolute parched.  
  
“Yes.” The straw was against her lips, and Molly took another refreshing sip. “Again, I apologize. An awful side effect of the drug is thirst.”  
  
“I don’t know anything,” Molly said, this time a hint of fear in her voice. Her mind was suddenly focused on the fact that Moriarty had “returned”, even though there were no signs of his reappearance other than the initial “Did you miss me?” campaign across England. “Please, please, I don’t—”  
  
“Don’t worry, Doctor Hooper. I’m not here to hurt you, and I will protect you at all costs.”  
  
Molly jumped when she felt cool metal against her skin. Whoever captured her began sawing away at the ropes that were attaching her to the chair. Then the woman put a restraining hand on her shoulders. “Don’t get up. The drug has made you disoriented and your muscles weakened; I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”  
  
“Alright.” Molly swallowed thickly. “What do you want to talk about?”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
Molly shook her head and blinked at the fuzzy outline of the woman sitting in front of her. “I don’t know anything.”  
  
“Oh, you know many things. For instance, you know how he faked his death.” Molly swallowed thickly, wishing she could properly fidget in her chair; her legs felt like they were being weighed down by lead, and her arms felt heavy too. “But I’m not interested in that. What I’m more interested in is your love life.”  
  
At that, Molly couldn’t help but laugh. “W-what? You want to know about my love life?” The more she talked, the more she felt like her brain was coming back online. If only she could move her legs!  
  
“Yes. Why aren’t you and Mr. Holmes dating?”  
  
“D-dating?” Molly spluttered, her eyes narrowing. “Are you Kitty Riley? Sherlock has told me about you.”  
  
“No, I’m not that woman. I have a bit more class than her.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Will you answer my question?”  
  
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Molly sighed and closed her eyes. When she did that, she realized she had a headache pounding away at her skull from trying to focus her vision. “We aren’t dating because Sherlock is married to his work, and has been for quite some time.”  
  
“I disagree.”  
  
Molly was quiet for a moment, her body deflating a bit. “He had a girlfriend once that I know of.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah. It’s embarrassing. Did you drug me?” Molly’s eyes fluttered open and she tried to glare at the woman who was still sitting across from her. Of course she was drugged, but was she drugged?  
  
“Another unfortunate side effect, I’m afraid.”  
  
Molly huffed and closed her eyes again. There really was no point in resisting. “He never talked about his girlfriend. She was killed around Christmas a few years ago, but then she wasn’t dead, and then she was dead a second time, but Sherlock told me she wasn’t and that he saved her life in the Middle East somewhere. And obviously she was important to him, because she was his first girlfriend…first everything. And he hasn’t had a real relationship since her, other than a fake one with a woman named Janine…poor thing. Oh God, I’m just like Mycroft.”  
  
“His brother?”  
  
“I’m spilling all his secrets, just like he did. You’re going to kill him aren’t you? Or worse! You’re going to kill her, and that’ll destroy him. What have I done?”  
  
Molly dropped her head and she couldn’t help but begin crying, worried for what she just did to Sherlock. She remembered what he was like when he thought his girlfriend was dead; this was going to be worse, so much worse.  
  
“Don’t cry,” the woman said gently. “No one is going to be hurt. I promise you, Molly Hooper.”  
  
“Why?” Molly gasped, sniffling.  
  
“Because I just want to help you.”  
  
“Help me? By kidnapping me and drugging me and forcing me to tell his secrets? How will that help? Who will that help?”  
  
Molly was met with silence, and she saw the fuzzy outline of the woman move from her chair. The farther she walked away from her the blurrier her outline became. She returned after a few moments, and Molly felt the soft texture of a tissue mopping up the tears from her face.  
  
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you, but believe me, you both need this.”  
  
“Need what?”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes just needs a kick in the right direction.”  
  
Molly bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“Yes you do, Molly.” The woman pressed the straw against her mouth again, and Molly drank deeply. “Of all the people in this world, you understand Sherlock Holmes, correct?” Molly pursed her lips and then nodded her head minutely. “Therefore, you understand how deeply he feels. You understand that it takes effort for him to admit anything sentimental. The only reason John Watson knows how Sherlock feels about him is because his speech; otherwise Sherlock would have kept living his life without so much as mentioning his love for his best friend.”  
  
“Were you at the wedding?” Molly asked, her mind trying to focus on the guests. The only other person who could have been interested in Sherlock Holmes’s love life was Janine, and Molly highly doubted the woman would kidnap her and try to fix her up with her ex.  
  
“No. I would have been the very last person to be considered a guest at that wedding.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“But do you understand what I’m saying, Molly? Sherlock sometimes needs…he needs pressure to realize how incredibly important someone is. I know you know things have changed between you. I have contacts throughout London, and they swear that you two are slowly moving towards something better than friendship. You’re just waiting for him to make the first move, because this isn’t…how would he say it? This isn’t his area. My kidnapping you is just jumpstarting the process.”  
  
Molly was quiet for several long moments, and then she shook her head. “Let me get this straight,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’ve kidnapped me, drugged me, and caused minimal harm to my person, not because you want to kill Sherlock Holmes, but because you want him to be happy?”  
  
“Close,” the woman said, standing up once again. “I want the both of you to be happy.”  
  
Molly squeezed her eyes shut. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
“Because,” she said simply from across the room. “I know what he likes, and he really likes you.”  
  
Molly opened her eyes again. She listened intently as the woman moved around, and then she heard her footsteps coming back towards her. “Now this will hurt just a bit. My men are going to move you, and you’ll wake up alone. Once you get the feeling back in your arms and legs, you can leave. Someone will find you, and my men will watch over you to ensure your safety.” Molly felt a prick in the inside of her arm that made her hiss in pain.  
  
And then she was falling asleep.

* * *

  
  
  **Step 3.**  
  
Molly groaned and blinked her eyes slowly. Her head was pounding in her skull and she felt sick to her stomach. After several moments of disorientation, she was able to get to her hands and knees before heaving her stomach contents all over the floor.  
  
Wiping tears from her eyes, she shakily stood to her feet, swaying from side to side. She squinted and tried to look around her surroundings. She was in an empty house, or flat, or something. She couldn’t see well without her contacts or glasses and didn’t have the will to go exploring, so she went on a search to find the exit.  
  
The layout of the home was simple enough, and Molly found the door that led outside easily. What surprised her, though, was when she found her glasses taped to the door. She shakily reached for them and removed the tape before sliding them onto her face.  
  
Relief was immediate as her vision finally focused. Without turning around to take in the flat, Molly opened the door and stepped outside. It was warm, and the sun was shining overhead, so Molly assumed she had been missing at least a day.  
  
She looked from left to right and saw she was in some sort of developments, flats lining the block, and they all looked empty. She contemplated knocking on doors to find a phone to call the police, but she figured that she was well and truly alone.  
  
She shakily stepped off the small porch and onto the pavement. With a sigh, she turned to her left and began trudging down the street. She was hoping she could make it to a main road and flag down the a motorist for help.  
  
As she was walking, she thought about the whole experience she just went through. Most of the details were fuzzy, but she did remember a woman, and her explanation for kidnapping her was to get to Sherlock? She couldn’t really remember; the drug(s) she was given obviously affecting her memory. Molly didn’t make it far before the sound of sirens met her ears. She paused in the middle of the pavement and waited.  
  
In a matter of minutes, Molly suddenly saw a fleet a police cars and ambulances with their sirens blaring, and then she looked up as several helicopters burst into the horizon.  
  
And then she heard him over all the din, “MOLLY HOOPER!”  
  
She turned around slowly, her knees wobbling, and she saw Sherlock Holmes running in her direction, his eyes focused on the flat she just exited. “Sherlock!” she croaked, wincing as pain ripped through her throat; she was so thirsty. She tried taking a few steps towards him, but her knees gave out, unable to support her weight any longer.  
  
It didn’t matter, because Sherlock Holmes spotted her.  
  
“Molly!”  
  
Sherlock skidded to a halt beside her, dropping to his knees and lifting her chin. “Are you hurt?”  
  
“N-no.”  
  
“Are you ill? I smell vomit. Have you been poisoned?”  
  
“Drugged.”  
  
“JOHN!” he bellowed.  
  
“I’m here, I’m here.  
  
John Watson appeared beside Molly, and he quickly began checking her over. He removed a stethoscope from his coat pocket and listened to Molly’s heart and lungs. Then he checked her for injuries, his hands gently pulling up the sleeves of her cardigan and the legs of her jeans. He was satisfied that she only had a few bruises on her wrists and knuckles, congruent with the witnesses saying she was fighting her attackers.  
  
“Are you alright?” John asked, after finishing his doctorial duties. The sounds of sirens were getting closer.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Sherlock suddenly pulled Molly against him. “Do you know who kidnapped you? Was it Moriarty? Did you recognize him?”  
  
Molly shrugged her shoulders, resting her head on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding wildly. “It was Cupid.”  
  
John snorted, he couldn’t help himself.

* * *

     **Job Well Done**  
  
Irene Adler sat on a small passenger plane, her phone tightly in her hands. She was looking at photographs one of her men sent her, of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. It had been less than five hours since Molly was rescued in the empty development, and already her men managed to photograph images of the Consulting Detective with his Pathologist, holding hands, sharing one kiss in a hospital room, and cuddled together in the narrow bed provided to Molly.  
  
The Woman immediately scrolled through the photographs and deleted them one by one. She had no interest in holding these images as insurance over these particular people.  
  
As she was about to slide her phone in her jacket pocket, it buzzed with a new text message.  
  
 _‘I did not approve of your methods. I will do everything in my power to never see Sherlock Holmes as frantic and broken as he has been in the past forty-eight hours. Regardless, Mary and I have never seen him as happy as he has been in the last hour, and that’s coming from a man who regularly celebrates serial murders like Christmas. In a roundabout way, we are saying thank you. Just never do it again. —JW & MW’_  
  
Irene stared at her mobile for a long moment before smiling. _‘You have my word. You and Mary must clear your text messages now.—IA’_  
  
After the message sent, she promptly removed every text message exchanged between herself, John, and Mary, effectively deleting her part in the matchmaking of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

_Fin._


	9. May I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from belleillumina: Sherlolly prompt: Maybe something inspired by the song May I, by Trading Yesterday. [Only if you still take prompts that is. I do not want to be a bother. Thank you.]

Sherlock Holmes had a new nightly routine once he returned to 221B Baker Street every evening, which started two weeks ago when Molly Hooper moved in after his four minute exile.

The first thing he would do was sweep through his flat in search of bugs, cameras, and microphones. He always started in the living room of his flat and moved through each room, searching thoroughly but quickly. Molly would assist if she was still awake, but more often than not, she was fast asleep in her new bed, and he would have to be extra careful in not waking her up. Then he would break into Mrs. Hudson’s flat and do the same, as well as ensuring her safety by locking her windows and doors. Once he was certain all occupants were accounted for in 221B, he would relax, change out of his clothes and into his pajamas, and either go to bed or complete an experiment running in the kitchen.

This evening, even though he desperately wanted to start a new experiment in the kitchen, he knew that it was better for him to catch at least a few hours of sleep, which he tried to do every two or three days. He could already feel his mind slowing down from the pressure of working and closing a high profile case while simultaneously trying to figure out if Moriarty was really alive or not.

With a sigh, he went to the bathroom and washed his face, brushed his teeth, and then stumbled to his bed, dropping his robe on the floor carelessly. He crawled into bed, rested his head on his pillow, waiting for his mind to slow down enough for him to fall asleep. As he was drifting off, he heard the soft footsteps that he was quite familiar with padding down his hallway. He was about to sit up to see what Molly needed, but then he head the bathroom door close, and he sighed.

_Just a late night loo run._

With that thought, he drifted off to sleep.

He wasn’t asleep for long before he was jostled awake by someone shaking his shoulder. “Sherlock! Sherlock!”

His eyes snapped open and he sat up, staring at Molly. Her eyes were wide in panic, and he could see sweat shining on her forehead. “Molly? What is it?”

“He’s here! He’s here! In my bedroom!”

He reached out to steady her as she wobbled on her feet. “Who is here?”

“Moriarty!” she gasped wildly.

Before Sherlock knew it, he was scrabbling out of bed. He hastily donned his robe before going to his doorway. When he heard Molly following him, he stopped and said, “Stay in here. Call Mycroft. Tell him we have a code yellow. He’ll know what to do.” He pointed to his nightstand where his phone was charging. “Use my phone.”

As calmly as he could, he left his bedroom and went upstairs, careful to avoid the stairs that creaked, not wanting to alert the intruder of his presence. He paused at the top of the steps before going to the room Molly was calling her own, and opened the door.

He stopped just passed the doorway and flicked on the light.

No one was in there.

He walked around the room, sniffing, investigating the windows, checking the lock, and peering into her wardrobe and cupboard. He dropped to the floor and crawled around, looking at the carpet and then looking beneath her bed.

There were no signs that anyone other than Molly Hooper had been in her room.

He cursed beneath his breath and jumped to his feet, only to see Molly not looking panicked like she did before, standing in the doorway.

“Was this some kind of joke? Or test? Molly! This isn’t funny. We are living precariously in a world where we could be blown up, kidnapped, murdered or tortured at any moment at the hands of James Moriarty. These kinds of games do nothing but—Molly?”

Sherlock closed the distance between them and cocked his head to the side.

Molly was staring blankly at him, her eyes open and glossy. He waved his hand in front of her face, and she didn’t even flinch. “Molly?” he asked carefully, placing his hands on her shoulders. It took him several long seconds to realize that she was _sleeping_.

For a moment, he was just motionless. And then he sighed. He remembered several times when John suffered from sleepwalking after being under extreme duress, like after being strapped to a bomb, the Hounds case, and more recently when he and Mary temporarily separated.

With Molly living in a new environment, being introduced to a stressful situation, and not getting enough sleep (he often heard her tossing and turning, suffering from nightmares and only getting two or three hours of sleep every evening), Sherlock understood that these were precursors to sleepwalking, nightmares, and night terrors. Sherlock had done enough research on sleepwalking to know the proper protocol. He needed to coax Molly back to bed.

“Molly?”

“Wha’ ‘ _lock_?” she slurred, lifting her head just slightly.

“You must go back to sleep now.”

“He’s _here_ ,” she whispered, her eyes widening fractionally.

Sherlock took another deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “I’ve checked everywhere, Molly. No one is here.”

“’ _lock_?” she whimpered, and Sherlock frowned just slightly. John never had conversations when he was caught sleepwalking and always went back to bed without much fight.

“I’ll stay.”

His hand slid from her should to her wrist, and he gently tugged her back to her bed. He pulled back the duvet and helped Molly get settled into bed. He stood over her for a moment, watching as she curled onto her side and wrapped her arms around her knees, effectively looking like a terrified child. With one last sigh, he sat down on the edge of her bed, hesitating for just a moment before shuffling around until his back was pressed against her headboard. He crossed his ankles and rested his hands on his chest, and stared straight ahead.

Other than a few whimpers and sighs, Molly remained quiet and motionless in bed, her bout of sleepwalking having run its course.

After what felt like hours and when Sherlock was certain that Molly was officially in REM sleep and she wouldn’t be up again, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. As he was shuffling around, he heard soft music coming from where he had been sitting.

He moved the pillow he was leaning against and saw Molly’s phone. He picked it up and brought the phone closer to his ear.

“ _May I hold you as you fall to sleep._  
When the world is closing in  
And you can’t breathe here  
May I love you, may I be your shield  
When no one can be found  
May I lay you down.”

He felt an odd clench around his heart, similar to the feeling when he thought Molly was in danger after his four minute exile. He tightened his grip on the phone and listened to the remainder of the song.

By the end of it, he turned off the music and gently placed the phone on her nightstand. Then he removed his robe and draped it over the footboard. He turned off the light and then returned to Molly’s bed. He lifted the duvet once again and slid inside. He wasted no time in curling around Molly, wrapping an arm around her protectively and pressing his face against her shoulder. Molly shifted in her sleep, whispering, “ _’lock_ ,” before relaxing, her stiff posture easing as if his physical presence against her chased away her nightmare.

In all the times they shared a bed (seven to be exact) they never so much as touched when they were sleeping (as far as he was aware), but this felt right—perfect even, because Sherlock was given the chance to shield her from her nightmares and keep her safe as she rested.

_Fin._


	10. Giardiasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little piece for @onesmartcumbercookie who is feeling unwell! I hope you feel better soon! :)

“John! She has Giardiasis!”

John Watson very carefully lowered his newspaper and stared at the wild-eyed, out of breath, pink cheeked Consulting Detective who just broke into his home and began shouting.

“First of all, Mary and the baby are sleeping,” John reprimanded softly, folding his newspaper and setting it aside when he realized Sherlock had no intentions of leaving any time soon, “Second of all… _what_?”

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said slowly, “Has Giardiasis. I looked up her symptoms on WebMD, since you are incapable of answering my texts!” he said pointedly, his eyes narrowing in irritation.

“Are you making up diseases?” John asked, rubbing his forehead, “Because I don’t have the patience for these mind games. I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time in a month.”

“No. I’m not making it up. Molly’s life is at stake! Can you get off your arse and come with me back to Baker Street?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” John said, “Let me just leave Mary a note.”

\-----

When John Watson stepped into 221B Baker Street, he expected Molly to be cooped up on the sofa, maybe with a few tissues, sniffling. Instead, he was met with silence and no sign of Sherlock’s girlfriend. “She’s in the bedroom,” Sherlock whispered, carefully toeing off his shoes as he was hanging up his coat. John made a move to walk towards Sherlock’s room, but Sherlock gripped his arm tightly. “Take off your shoes and be quiet!” he hissed. “She could be sleeping.”

John sighed, but did as he was told. Then he followed Sherlock down the short hallway to his bedroom, where the door was wide open.

Molly Hooper was in bed, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, being propped up by what seemed like every pillow in the flat. She was surrounded by empty glasses, mugs, tissues, and there was a rubbish been beside the bed. The air smelled of vomit, and she looked at the door sheepishly when they stepped into the room.

“I tried to make it to the loo…well, I thought about going to the loo…I mean…the idea briefly entered my mind…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock said, sweeping into the room and getting the rubbish bin and also collecting all the empty mugs and glasses. “What do you need?”

“Nothing right now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded his head once, and as he was stepping out of the room, he whispered to John, “Fix her.”

John tilted his head, and Molly tried to smile, but it just looked like a grimace. “You didn’t have to come over…”

“Well, Sherlock insisted you had…what was it?”

“Giardiasis.”

“Yes. What is that, exactly?”

Molly shrugged her shoulders. “Some kind of parasite you get from contaminated drinking water or something.”

John moved closer to the bed, opening up the small medical bag that he brought with him. “Would you object to a quick exam? He’s going to kill me otherwise.”

“Knock yourself out,” Molly said, sitting up a bit higher. “I think it’s just the flu, but he’s deduced that I’m going to die, so…”

John removed his stethoscope and rubbed it against his hand to warm it up. “Where did he get this idea from?” He waited for Molly to untangle herself from her blankets. Then she pointed to the TV that he just realized was in his bedroom.

“I was feeling under the weather two days ago, and Sherlock thought a little mindless telly and tea in bed would cure me. We just got Netflix, so we’ve been watching the most obscure documentaries for days now.”

“Take a deep breath,” John said, and Molly followed his instructions. He was satisfied that her lungs were in working order, but was a bit concerned that her heart was racing. He also noticed her trembling, and her shoulders were raise higher than normal; she was carrying a lot of extra tension. He dropped his stethoscope into his bag and began searching for his thermometer, listening as Molly said,

“Last night during a documentary on tropical diseases, I started having abdominal cramping and nausea. Around three this morning, I think, I had a fever, vomiting, and diarrhea. I’ve had cold chills, headaches, and the room is currently spinning.”

“Sounds like the flu,” John said, finally finding his thermometer. “Open up!”

As John waited for the thermometer to beep, he looked around Sherlock’s room. It was always immaculate, which was funny considering the rest of the flat used to be a disaster before Molly moved in, but it was even clean that usual. “Has he been…dusting?”

Molly nodded her head. She waited for the thermometer to be taken out of her mouth before she said, “He really thinks I’m severely ill. He hasn’t slept for three days, and he’s been…waiting on me hand and foot. I’ve never seen him so…” She couldn’t seem to find the right word, so she waved her hand around instead.

John set the thermometer aside. “Well, your temperature is 39 degrees, which isn’t good.”

“It was nearly 39.5 degree last night.” John turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, tea in one hand and the rubbish bin in the other. “She couldn’t hold anything down so I tried cooling her with frozen peas and wet flannels.”

“Good,” John said encouragingly. He returned his attention back to Molly. “Have you tried eating anything today?”

Molly nodded her head. “But I can’t keep anything down. I’ve tried toast, water, tea…”

John nodded his head and then rooted through his bag again. “I have the supplies I need for an IV, but I want to get your fever down first. Sherlock, is the tub clean?”

“Yes.” Sherlock shuffled into the room, replacing the rubbish bin by Molly’s side and the tea on his bedside table. He clasped his hands in front of him and rocked on his feet for a moment before sitting down on the edge of his bed. “You want her to take a cool bath?”

“Yes. Thirty to forty five minutes in cool water should lower her temperature closer to 37 degrees. Then we’ll move on from there.”

\-----

Sherlock took it upon himself to get Molly undressed and settled in the bath. Since he was helping Molly, John took the opportunity to change the sheets on their bed and toss the duvet and extra blankets into the corner. Then he made his way to the kitchen, surprised to see the fridge stocked with popsicles, juice, ice, and two glass bowls of orange jelly. He glanced at the worktop and saw tins of chicken broth, crackers, jelly, rice, and bread. Discarded teabags also littered the surface.

John did a cursory cleanup before getting a small dish of jelly and a glass of water.

“Her fever has lowered one and a half degrees.”

John spun around. “That’s good! Great! If she can hold down a bit of jelly and water, she might not need the IV.”

John followed Sherlock into the bedroom and was pleased to see Molly in a vest and shorts, sitting up in bed. The sheet was folded down by her feet, and without being asked, Sherlock carefully unfolded it and covered her up. He dropped a kiss on her forehead before taking the dishes from John and settling beside her on the bed.

John watched, eyebrow arched, as Sherlock fed Molly the orange jelly and helped her sip the water. He assumed Molly was fully capable of holding the bowl and spoon but she seemed to be trying to appease Sherlock’s need to nurture her.

“Feeling better?” John asked, after she ate as much as she could and finished off the glass of water. Molly nodded her head.

“Much better.”

“Any cramping or need to use the bathroom?”

“A bit of cramping,” Molly said, flushing pink when Sherlock place a gentle hand on her abdomen, rubbing it soothingly, “But nothing like early this morning.”

“Good. I think you’re on the road to recovery from…”

“Giardiasis,” Sherlock supplied helpfully without looking away from Molly. With his free hand, he carefully pushed her hair away from her face and felt her cheeks and forehead.

“Right. Giardiasis.” John tried not to laugh. He picked up his medicine bag and took a step backwards. “I’m going to head home then. Give me a call if you feel worse or if your fever spikes back up. You’re a doctor, Molly, so I trust you’ll know when your body is heading into distress.”

Molly nodded her head. “Thank you for coming over.”

“It wasn’t a problem.”

\-----

Once John was gone, Sherlock settled himself beside Molly, the TV on and playing another obscure documentary. “Are you feeling better? And don’t try to lie to me.”

“I am a bit.” Molly shuffled around until she was resting her head on his chest. She tried to keep her eyes on the television, but they kept drifting closed. She was dozing when she felt Sherlock’s hand on her back, massaging away the tension that developed from her bout of vomiting earlier in the day.

“In the years I’ve known you, I’ve never so much as seen you with a runny nose…” Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not an idiot. I know you don’t have Giardiasis, but I panicked.” Molly just smiled and nuzzled his chest. With any other person on the planet, they would have felt claustrophobic and suffocated by Sherlock’s constant presence, his inability to leave her alone, and his constant questions about her health and bodily functions, but Molly found his concern sweet and endearing; it wasn’t every day he ignored cases, experiments, and his general well-being to take care of her.

“Don’t get sick again,” Sherlock said warningly, and Molly couldn’t help but chuckle weakly.

“I’ll try.”

_Fin._


	11. Correcting an Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from cumberbabeusa: Sherlolly prompt, please! Janine finds out that Sherlock has been "cheating" on her with Molly, with whom he has been in a secret relationship with for some time. Thanks!

Sherlock Holmes had his coat collar pulled up to protect his neck from the wind and was walking quickly towards St. Bart’s Hospital. After sleeping for what seemed like years, he woke up that morning and felt the need to experiment.

He was cutting through a park when he saw someone walking towards him. He ducked his head and moved quicker, not in the mood to talk to the reporters and paparazzi that had been following his every move for the better part of a week. He tried to step out of this person’s—woman’s—way, when he stopped in his tracks when he recognized who it was.

He hadn’t seen Janine in months.

Before he could say hello (because that was the polite thing to say), she stopped in front of him and delivered a firm smack to his cheek that he was not expecting. When she reared back to slap him again, he grabbed her wrist, careful to not hurt her. “You bastard!” she shouted, struggling.

“I thought we established that during our last meeting?” he asked, not letting go of her. His eyes flickered around them; they were causing a bit of a scene.

“How could you—I know you were a lying prick, but you’re a damn cheater too?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion, and as her fire and rage began to ebb away, he let go of her wrist, hyper vigilant for another attack. “What are you talking about?”

“I know about you and that doctor!”

“John?” he spluttered. “He’s married and has a daughter now! We are not together! I am not gay!”

“Not John! Molly! Molly Hooper! The one from the wedding, with that yellow bow!”

Sherlock took a step back. People weren’t supposed to know about Molly; Sherlock had been careful to keep that development in his life out of the papers. “Who told you about Molly?”

“See! You aren’t even denying it! She moved into your flat only weeks after we were over! And how long have you two been together? Some time, I take it, because it’s obvious you have feelings for her!” She took a heaving breath and then glared at him. “They told me about you and her, but I didn’t want to believe it! And you aren’t even trying to defend yourself.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and looked at Janine critically. It was obvious that their run-in in the middle of the park was not planned; Janine looked far too frazzled and emotional to have premeditated this conversation, which meant she was in London for another reason and happened upon him. He also deduced that someone, he wasn’t sure who, had been feeding her false information. Possibly a close friend who wanted her to be angry at her ex?

“Janine, listen, you must listen to me, alright?” He grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the closest stone bench, plopping down. For a moment Janine just stared at him, but he tugged on her arm gently. “Please. Someone has misinformed you.” Rather uneasily, she sat down beside him, leaving as much distance between them as possible.

“Let me tell you the truth, but it must stay between us, okay?”

Janine contemplated it for a moment, and Sherlock knew that if she wasn’t satisfied with his honest story, she would tell the papers as a continued act of revenge; he could not afford that. After nearly a minute, she nodded her head once. “Fine.”

* * *

_Seven months earlier, in January…_

* * *

 

Freshly back from his four minute exile, Sherlock wasted no time in getting down to business.

As Mary was speeding away from the airport and towards Central London, Sherlock began mentally compiling a list of things he needed to get done, immediately.

1\. Ensure Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, the Watsons, and Molly Hooper’s safety.

2\. Find Moriarty. Take care of the problem.

3\. Ask Molly Hooper out to dinner.

4\. Find a suitable gift for the baby. Possibly compose a lullaby.

Over the course of three months, Sherlock crossed items one and four from his list. (He ended up composing a lullaby—everyone, including babies, love music, right?) He never stopped working on number two, and number three had to keep being pushed back because he had to focus on his Moriarty issue.

Coincidentally, the day Mary Watson finally gave birth was the day that Moriarty sent three vicious men after Molly Hooper. Thankfully, Molly knows her way around a scalpel and incapacitated all three men and called the police. Sherlock arrived just in time to pack a bag, put Toby in a carrier, wait for Molly to give her statement to Sally Donovan, go to Baker Street and drop off her belongings, and return to the hospital with an hour to spare before the baby was born. (Sherlock spent that hour telling Molly that the safest place for her was with him, which obviously meant that she had to move to Baker Street temporarily and even Molly knew better than to argue.)

Six months to the day that Scarlett Watson entered the world and Molly Hooper moved into Baker Street, they were both kidnapped by Moriarty himself.

Sherlock was given an ultimatum. Choose Molly Hooper or Scarlett Watson; either or, his heart was going to be burned out of him. (Thank God Mycroft neglected to tell Moriarty about Mummy.)

But one thing that Moriarty missed (he always missed something, first Molly, now this) was the history of one Mary Watson _nee_ Morstan, former assassin. Sherlock, along with John and Mary, met with Moriarty in an abandoned warehouse because the Watsons were refusing to stand on the sidelines as their daughter was being held hostage by a psychopath.

Once given the ultimatum, Sherlock almost panicked. He had no backup plan and in fact, wasn’t even anticipating Molly and Scarlett being kidnapped. When he, John, and Mary left Baker Street that morning, Molly and Scarlett were safe and Mycroft and his surveillance team had no indication that anything was going to happen.

One look at Molly told Sherlock that she had already chosen for him. Let her die so the Watsons could have their baby.

Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to argue with Molly or try and make up an offer for Moriarty, it was all over.

Because Mary, former assassin, was _packing_ , and Moriarty thought it wasn’t necessary to pat her down before entering the warehouse (she was _just_ John Watson’s wife, _just_ a receptionist). One shot to Moriarty’s chest knocked him to the ground, and Mary ran towards him. She paused at his side and said firmly, “No one touches my family.”

Two shots to his head ensured that the criminal mastermind would never get up again.

“Jesus Christ,” John swore, before racing after Mary, Sherlock hot on his heels. They crossed the warehouse in seconds and John knelt beside the small basket that was holding his daughter. He checked her over. She was still breathing, but shallowly; he found a few bruises on her and one puncture mark on her thigh. After John’s brief once over, he called 999.

Sherlock ran straight to Molly, ripping the cloth gag out of her mouth and gasping, “Dinner. Later. We have to have dinner.”

“Okay!” Molly gasped, fighting against her restraints. She turned her head to John and Mary, who were both cradling Scarlett. “She was crying and wouldn’t stop! Moriarty gave her Chloral Hydrate, but I don’t know the dosage. Get her to an A&E now!” Then she struggled more against the ropes that were tied tightly to her wrists and ankles. “Get me out!”

“Shh…” Sherlock said soothingly, running a hand down her arm. He noticed her eyes were dilated and her breathing was close to hyperventilation. She was drugged, but he wasn’t sure with what.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft and his men arrived.

Two minutes after that, the police and ambulances arrived.

Just as they were loading Scarlett and her parents into the ambulance, the baby gave a pitiful cry, and then Molly collapsed. Her heart was unable to deal with the stress, drug cocktail, and adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Mary went with Scarlett in the first ambulance. John stayed behind and performed CPR on Molly as Sherlock paced over them. After two minutes of being _dead_ , Molly gasped for breath and then everyone else rode to the hospital in the second ambulance, Sherlock never letting go of Molly’s hand.

* * *

 

“So you see, whoever your source is got it all wrong. Yes, I was living with Molly Hooper only weeks after our broken engagement, and yes, I have had feelings for her, and have had them for a very long time, but we did not become romantically involved until _after_ she was kidnapped.”

Sherlock looked at Janine, this time with sincerity in his eyes. “I may be the world’s biggest arsehole, Janine, and I did treat you very poorly, but you must believe me when I say that not once did I ever “cheat” on you.”

Janine tucked a loose curl behind her ear and shifted on the hard stone bench she was sitting on. She was quiet for a moment, and then she sighed. “I believe you, Sherly. And I’m sorry for slapping—”

Sherlock held up his hand, cutting her off. “You and I both know I deserve much worse. The papers and money you received was hardly justice.”

Janine opened her mouth for a moment, before snapping her jaw closed. They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Sherlock sighed. He asked softly, “Are we alright?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “We are. I’m glad you’ve recovered from your gunshot wound.”

“I’m glad you’ve found someone who treats you better than I ever did.”

Janine’s eyes snapped to him, and he smiled at her sweetly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “How did you…? Never mind.” She stood up from the bench and Sherlock followed suit. “See you around, Sherly.”

“Goodbye Janine.” He held out his hand to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took. With a smile, she dropped his hand and began walking in the direction that he had come from.

Sherlock watched her go for a moment, before turning and resuming his walk to St. Bart’s Hospital.

_Fin._


	12. The Friendly Pathologist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from belleillumina: Sherlolly with Irene as Molly's friend [could be Mary's too... triple teaming the boys.] and Sherlock being irritated of it. [John's reaction would be a nice addition.]

“I—I just don’t understand!”

John Watson was standing in the doorway of Molly Hooper’s small kitchen, peering at the trio of women sitting in her sitting room. He turned around slowly to see Sherlock Holmes sitting at the table, his head pillowed on his arms.

“What’s so hard to understand? I’m sick but I should be better in a few days.”

“Not that,” John said, waving his hand dismissively. “This! Them! They’re being _friendly_ …”

Sherlock lifted his head slowly, looking as miserable as he probably felt. “Molly has the uncanny ability to make friends with the world’s most dangerous men…and women.”

“But _THE_ Woman?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, but his brow furrowed regardless, displaying how uncomfortable he was with the situation. “I’m trying not to be…irritated. Molly has every right to be friends with whomever she wants and I can’t police her relationships—”

“Unless you want to say goodbye to your own,” John said, and Sherlock nodded his head before dropping it back to the table, groaning piteously. He wasn’t sick often, but when he did get sick, he got _really_ sick. After sitting in silence for a few minutes, John turned around to look at Molly, Mary, and Irene sitting around, conversing as if this happened on a regular basis. “It’s just so odd.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock said, lifting his head for a moment. He narrowed his eyes at John and then lowered it back to his arms. “Shut up.”

“What?” John asked, turning back to his friend. Between being father of the year, doctor of the year, and personal caretaker of the week, John had been unable to assist on many cases, including the one the Woman had presented to him and Sherlock just a few days prior. Kate, her friend (and possibly more) had gone missing over the course of the past two weeks, and Irene Adler wanted the Consulting Detective to find her before she got hurt.

Except Sherlock wasn’t even able to sit up without feeling like vomiting and his brain had been pounding against his skull for a solid two days; he was in no shape to work a case (whether it was a two or an eleven on his scale). But Sherlock did the next best thing; he offered the services (after seeking permission, of course) of his best, favorite, and smartest pathologist he knew: Molly Hooper.

Between Irene Adler, Molly Hooper, and Mary Morstan, they broke up an animal trafficking ring, found Kate, and became fast friends in two days and a few hours.

Sherlock was _not_ even a tiny bit jealous that the three of them managed to solve a case that would have taken him a few days longer.

Sherlock was _not_ worried that Molly was going to leave him because Irene knew what she liked (however irrational that train of thought was; he blamed the idea on his raging fever).

Sherlock was definitely _not_ worried that the group of women would share embarrassing bedroom stories and mock him accordingly.

What Sherlock _was_ was very ill and missing the attention of his girlfriend. Granted, John Watson was an exceptional doctor, but nothing compared to Doctor Molly Hooper.

“Are you alright?” John asked, reaching across the table and attempting to feel his forehead. “You’re a bit warm.” Sherlock shrugged away from him and growled something a bit threatening. John just rolled his eyes and leaned against his seat. “I didn’t mean to alarm you about them. You aren’t…jealous or something, are you?”

“No!” he shouted, causing the chatter to stop from the living room. John rolled his eyes again and stood up.

“I’m making tea.” Sherlock chose not to mention that Molly had taken the kettle filled with tea to the living room, and that she didn’t have any tea in the kitchen. Her shopping list was posted on the fridge and tea was one of the numerous items on the list; it wasn’t hard to deduce.

As he puttered around the unfamiliar kitchen searching for the kettle, he heard footsteps coming towards the room and he glanced up to see a very concerned Molly entering the room.

“Still not feeling well?” Molly asked, pausing beside Sherlock. Sherlock sat up slowly, and Molly easily stepped into his space. Sherlock pillowed his head against her stomach and wrapped his arms around her. Molly ran her fingers through his hair before resting them on the back of his neck. “You should go back to bed. I’ll be in in a minute, and I’ll tell you all about how brilliant I was on a case for a change.”

“Always brilliant,” Sherlock mumbled against her jumper. Molly giggled and patted his head before looking up at John.

“When was his last dose of paracetamol?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.” John gave up on finding her kettle and instead reached for a beer from her fridge.

“Let’s go,” Molly said, and without another word, Sherlock stood up and made his way to Molly’s bedroom, stopping for only a moment to say goodbye to the occupants of the sitting room and wave as energetically as possible to the giggling one year old on Mary’s lap.

Sherlock really had nothing to worry about. Molly had been and always would be brilliant and she never had the inkling to leave before.

It really was just his fever trying to trick his mind.

_Fin._


	13. Snogging VS Revising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: Prompt! Teenlock sherlolly <3 sherlock and molly are studying together but sherlock can't keep his hands off of her. (sweet sherlock is my weakness).:3

Molly Hooper spread her notes out on her side of the table in Sherlock Holmes’s kitchen. She tried to leave enough space for Sherlock to work, but she knew without a doubt that Sherlock wasn’t going to revise, and even if he was, it wasn’t for classwork. He would probably revise his notes over one of his most recent experiments or observations or something of the sort.

“Molly, are you thirsty?”

“Hmm?” Molly glanced up from her biology text and then smiled at Sherlock. He was at the sink already filling a glass of water for himself. “Sure!”

After a moment Sherlock was striding across the room with a glass in hand. Molly easily reached for it, and Sherlock’s fingers brushed against hers. Molly smiled up at him, and he leaned down and pecked her sweetly on the lips before returning to his seat across from her.

They revised in silence for a few minutes, or at least Molly did; every time she glanced at Sherlock, he was scribbling away in his notebook.

And then his bare foot brushed against her sock clad one.

Molly jumped and glanced at Sherlock from beneath her lashes. There was a bit of color on his cheeks and he quickly mumbled, “Sorry,” without looking up.

“It’s alright,” Molly said, shifting around until her knees brushed his. She bit her bottom lip and looked back down at her text book, trying not to smile as Sherlock sucked in a startled breath.

It wasn’t long before Molly was immersed in her revision, focusing on her notes that she took in class over the past few weeks. She was glad she had a full week until the exam that she was studying for, because Sherlock kept distracting her with his knees.

“Molly?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I borrow your text book for a moment? I left mine at school…”

“Yeah, sure.” Before Molly could pass the book across the table, Sherlock was out of his seat and moving around the table until he was sitting in the empty seat beside her. He rested one arm on the back of her chair as he leaned closer to her and leafed through the pages.

Molly honestly tried to pay attention, but Sherlock soon had his hand in her hair, twirling it with his fingers. She glanced at him and it _looked_ like he was engrossed in his reading, but she could see that his eyes weren’t flicking over the pages like they usually did when he was working.

She returned her attention to her notes and pulled her notebook closer to her. Even if he was insisting on sitting so close, smelling so good, and playing with her hair, she could still rewrite the twenty-five definitions she was supposed to have memorized.

When his fingers slipped from the ends of her hair to rub her scalp, she shivered. Two solid minutes of his surprise scalp massage, and Molly forgot what she was supposed to be writing. _What am I even revising?_ She stared at her notes before glancing at her book. That would help her focus.

“Uhh…Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I need my book again. Are you using it to revise?”

“Revise? No.” He suddenly slipped his arm around her and tugged her into his lap. Molly shifted a bit before resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms loosely around his shoulders.

“This position is not conducive to revising.”

“I am going to respectfully disagree,” Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I believe this position needs a lot of revision. And we should probably practice our snogging for the next hour until my parents get home.”

Molly giggled and shook her head. “We haven’t had a proper snog in ages…” she conceded slowly.

“Then that’s settled.” He made a move to push away from the table, but hesitated at the last second. “If that’s alright with you?”

Molly finally pulled away and cupped his cheeks in her hands. He was always cautious when he initiated kissing and other touches; he was much more confident when Molly took the lead. “I’m more than alright. Can you carry me?”

Sherlock wasted no time in jumping away from the table, somehow managing to swing Molly onto his shoulder. “Of course I can carry you!” he said, his statement getting lost amidst Molly’s shrieks of laughter. In a matter of seconds, he crossed the kitchen and went to the sitting room, depositing Molly on the sofa before plopping down beside her. Molly draped herself over his lap and giggled as Sherlock tickled her until she was gasping for breath and then he kissed her until she had no air left in her lungs.

The two teens lost track of time (Molly frequently made Sherlock lose his sense of time in situations like this), and they were interrupted by a sharp, “Does your mother need to instill a “no girls allowed over without supervision rule”? Mike never gave us this hard of a time after puberty!”

The loud laughter of Mr. Holmes could be heard from the kitchen as he quickly retreated to where he just came from.

Molly groaned in embarrassment, dropping her head to his shoulder. Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head on top of hers, tightening his grip that he had on her hips. They spent a minute just catching their breaths and calming down. “We’re rubbish at this.”

Molly couldn’t help but giggle before kissing his cheek and climbing off his lap. “Let’s help with dinner.”

“They were planning on giving us a “talk”, and now especially after what Dad just saw. I deduced it weeks ago,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

Molly shrugged her shoulders, offering him her hand. “It was going to happen sooner or later. We are sixteen years old, remember?”

“I feel much more mature than sixteen years,” Sherlock said firmly, sounding a bit like his older brother Mycroft. He raised his head a bit indignantly, even though his curls were in a wild disarray, evidence of their snogging from earlier.

“Says the boy who tossed me over his shoulder not even an hour ago!” With a laugh, Molly turned away from him and made her way towards the kitchen, intent on cleaning up her notes and helping Mr. and Mrs. Holmes with dinner. She hardly made it halfway across the room before Sherlock had his arms wrapped around her and was blowing raspberries against her neck.

Once again, Molly’s shrieks of laughter filled the room as she struggled to escape his silly grasp and take refuge in the kitchen with his parents.

_Fin._


	14. Visiting Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a nonny: Established teenlock sherlolly. They're watching a movie and Sherlock can't seem to take his hands off of Molly so he hugs her and kisses her and he's just really affectionate bc molly's so cute. Fluff <3

It was storming outside, the wind howling, the rain pelting poor Molly Hooper as she trudged down the dirt road with a duffel bag over her shoulder. When she left London earlier that afternoon, it had been warm with no indication of a storm, but by the time the sixteen and a half year old girl got halfway to her journey to Sussex, it was storming something fierce.

Her cabbie refused to drive her the last three and a half kilometers to her destination, stating that the weather was atrocious and the car wouldn’t make it on the dirt path.

But even though she was soaked to the bone and was shivering, Molly was determined to get to finish her journey, even if that meant getting sick by the end of it.

You see, Molly Hooper used to live in the country, up until three months ago, when her father passed away from a short battle with cancer. Barely two weeks after his passing, Molly’s grieving mother couldn’t bear to be in the house anymore, and if Molly was honest, she couldn’t either, so the two of them packed up their meager belongings and moved in with Molly’s aunt and uncle in London, leaving behind most of their things, Molly’s school, and one of the most important things to the young girl, her best friend and boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes.

They managed to make their relationship work, through letters and phone calls several times a week, but having not seen each other in three months put stress on their relationship. Which was why Molly had decided that since she had an extra-long weekend (five days! It was nearly unheard of!) she would travel to her boyfriend’s home and bask in his presence, even if that meant helping him with an experiment or assisting him and John Watson on one of their adventures.

After what seemed like forever, Molly finally reached the gate to the Holmes home. She opened it and made sure it locked behind her, and then nearly ran up the walk and to the door. She knocked on it with cold knuckles, hoping someone was home. 

She waited outside only for a few moments before the door opened. For a minute she was met was silence as she raised her eyes to look at Mr. Holmes. He was motionless, staring at her with wide surprised eyes, and then at the sound of his wife asking who it was, he broke into a wide grin, almost identical to his son’s, and wrapped his arms around Molly. “It’s been so long, Molly!” he said, squeezing her tightly.

“Molly Hooper? She’s here? You better bring her inside! She’s going to freeze to death! Let me see her, let me see her!”

Soon, Molly was inside the warm and cozy home of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and Mrs. Holmes was cupping her cheeks, inspecting Molly’s face closely. “How are you dearie?” she asked softly. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral.”

“I’m alright,” Molly said, smiling despite the tears that flooded her eyes; just talking about her father often made her cry. Mrs. Holmes tutted softly and hugged her tightly.

“We’ve missed you around here. Sherlock’s been in a right strop for weeks.” She pulled away and then eyed the luggage sitting at her feet. “You’ll be staying for a few days, then?”

She nodded her head, biting her lip nervously. “If that’s alright?”

“Of course it’s alright! Unfortunately, Sherlock isn’t home right now, but we’re expecting him back by dinner. Now let me find you something to wear, you’ll freeze to death in your soaked clothes!”

Before long, Molly found herself swimming in one of Sherlock’s soft t-shirts he often slept in, and a pair of athletic shorts. She was wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in her hands and a fire roaring in front of her. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were seated on the sofa, badgering Molly about her mother, her health, her school work, her new friends, basically anything and everything they didn’t know from her and Sherlock’s exchanges.

All the talking had worn Molly out, and she was soon asleep, curled up in the chair.

——-

“I can’t believe it.”

“Hmm?” Molly murmured in her sleep, opening her eyes and smiling warmly at Sherlock Holmes who was kneeling beside her.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed her forehead against hers. “I can honestly say that I’m surprised. I deduced we had a visitor, but I thought it was Mycroft because Dad was so excited.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not disappointed. Relieved.” He kissed her softly, one of his hands sliding beneath her shoulders to pull her closer. “Ecstatic. Thrilled. Elated.” He punctuated each word with a kiss until Molly was giggling. “You’re here for at least three days, or else you wouldn’t have made the journey from London.”

“Five.”

“Brilliant!”

They shared a few more kisses before Sherlock finally pulled away and helped Molly get untangled from her nest of blankets. It seemed Mr. or Mrs. Holmes added a few more while she had been sleeping. “Mummy said dinner will be done in two hours. Want to watch a film?”

Molly nodded her head and while Sherlock got the television sorted, she moved to the sofa, sitting on the very edge of the seat. “John left this here. It’s a horror or drama film, I can’t quite remember. We never got around to watching it.”

Molly thought for a moment, and then she nodded her head. “That’s fine, I suppose.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically as he said, “John said it’s a perfect film to watch with one’s girlfriend. It evidently causes more cuddling or something ridiculous like that. Want to prove him wrong?”

Molly giggled and nodded her head. She waited to get herself comfortable until Sherlock was seated on the sofa. She tucked herself into his side and wrapped the blanket around both of them.

——-

Sherlock hardly looked at the television as the film played, his gaze fixed on Molly Hooper, cataloging her changes, wincing at her weight loss (only six pounds—it could be worse, but he always worried about the petite girl), the dark circles beneath her eyes, her chewed thumbnail, and the new scar on the back of her right hand (it looked like a mark left by her new kitten, Toby).

He couldn’t help but smile when Molly jerked against him and tucked her head against his shoulder, peering at the screen with one eye. His eyes flickered to the television and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes; it was definitely a film John would consider a “horror film”.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulder and pulled her closer, feeling the tension release from her shoulders as he did so. He kissed the top of her head and buried his nose into her hair, breathing deeply.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked, after a few moments when he didn’t move away. He hummed noncommittally against her scalp, running his hand up and down her arm. “Everything alright?”

Sherlock pulled away only for a second, just to drop several kisses on her forehead, cheeks, chin, and to the very tip of her nose which caused her to giggle. Then he resumed his position with his face pressed against her hair. He hadn’t been paying attention to the film anyway.

Sherlock managed to stay that way for nearly five minutes, before he huffed softly and pulled Molly into his lap. He kissed her exposed shoulder, the neck of the shirt a bit big on her. He glanced up at her mild protest, her attention on the television. He rolled his eyes but shifted around until they were comfortably cuddled on the sofa, laying down with Molly in front of him. He curled around her as much as possible, tangling his fingers with hers.

When another frightening thing happened in the film, Molly squeaked and jerked back, bumping her head against his chin. “S-sorry!”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock murmured, squeezing her hands. He brought their clasped hands to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand, his lips pressing against the new scar. He was only seventeen years old and he never imagined that he would miss someone as much as he missed her; the three months she’d been gone had been the longest three months of his young life. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered softly, his lips brushing against her ear.

Molly turned her head slowly, peering at his face. “I’ve missed you too.” She smiled softly at him and Sherlock felt his heart tighten in his chest.

He kissed the top of her head when she turned back to the television, and Molly giggled. “We’re definitely cuddling.”

“Blast!” Sherlock said with feigned annoyance.

“I hope you don’t owe John any money.”

“It wasn’t a bet, so I’m safe.”

“Good.”

When Molly was once again absorbed into the film, he tightened his arms around her. He loved being affectionate with Molly, even if that meant he had to suffer through a stupid film. And he hardly suffered, very much distracted by all the kissing, hugging, and cuddling he was able to accomplish.

They stayed that way for the duration of the film, Molly pressed tightly against Sherlock’s front, with Sherlock occasionally kissing whatever parts of her he could reach whenever she jumped or gasped in fear, her reactions from the ridiculous film irresistibly adorable.

Since Sherlock couldn’t see Molly’s face, he was unaware of the knowing smile and flush on her cheeks as he sighed contentedly before kissing her shoulder once again.

She definitely made the right decision by coming up for a surprise visit.


	15. Sherlock's Backside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written during writers block. Molly has some sort of routine surgery and has interesting comments about Sherlock Holmes's arse.

“Do you have anyone coming in to wait with you, Doctor Hooper?”

 

Molly Hooper was lying on an uncomfortable bed in her small hospital room. She was having routine surgery that morning; the removal of her tonsils and adenoids. She had been plagued with sore throats for months now and she was finally taking the first steps to taking care of the problem.

 

“Ummm…no, not that I know of,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

 

She thought about asking one of her friends to accompany her to the hospital that morning and then stay with her for the rest of the day, but in the end, she didn’t want to bother anyone. Her closest friends like Meena and Caroline were usually busy in the morning, Sherlock was bound to have a case, John and Mary were always busy with their baby, and even Lestrade had his plate full most days. She couldn’t bear to ask Mrs. Hudson to give up a few days to watch over her, and Molly kept reminding herself that she was a doctor; she didn’t really need someone to stand over her.

 

“Alright, well the anesthesiologist will be in to see you in a few minutes, and then you’ll be off to surgery.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Molly smiled at the well-mannered nurse, but once she was alone, she was frowning. She didn’t want to admit that she was nervous, but she couldn’t help it. This was major surgery and her first time ever being under the knife; any rational human being would be scared.

 

Molly jumped at the sound of the door opening, and she looked up to greet her anesthesiologist but was surprised to see John Watson smiling at her. “Hello, Molly.”

 

“John?”

 

“Mycroft informed us that you were admitted to the hospital this morning.” His smile turned into a frown as he sat down in the empty chair beside her bed. “Why didn’t you mention you were getting these procedures done?”

 

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Molly whispered. “I assumed Sherlock would have a case and you have the baby.”

 

John waved his hand dismissively. “Sherlock’s cases can be put on hold for this. And obviously Mary and I are busy with Scarlett, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take time to sit with you pre-and-post operation.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m here now, and I’ll definitely be here when you wake up.”

 

“Thank you,” Molly said, appreciatively.

 

“When are you supposed to go under?”

 

Molly shrugged her shoulders. “A few minutes. Soon.”

 

\-----

 

Sherlock Holmes felt an unusual amount of trepidation as he stood over Molly Hooper as she was sleeping in her hospital bed. The phone call from his brother that morning, informing him that Molly was being admitted to the hospital, was disconcerting, and he wanted to be angry that she didn’t at least inform him that she was getting a routine operation done. He suspected that she didn’t want to feel like a nuisance, but Molly Hooper was far from that in Sherlock’s books.

 

And whether she liked it or not, he had already set up a makeshift hospital room in 221B Baker Street in his own bedroom. In a very short amount of time that morning, he researched how long it would take her to recover and what she would need; he missed seeing her before she went under, but he made a promise to himself that he would be there when she woke up.

 

He took a step back when he saw her mouth twitch, forming a grimace. “Should she be frowning?” he asked John, who was sitting beside her bed. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock.

 

“She’s just waking up. I doubt Molly Hooper wakes up every morning with a giant grin on her face.”

 

“It feels like it sometimes, though,” Sherlock muttered.

 

After a few more minutes, Molly’s eyes finally opened. She blinked tiredly a few times, and then turned her eyes to look at Sherlock and John. Her eyes widened in alarm as they darted between the two men beside her.

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly and then said, “You’ll be staying with me for a few days…” He glanced at John, and John narrowed his eyes and shook his head at him. Sherlock quickly added, “If that’s alright?”

 

Molly stared at him for a moment longer before nodding her head slowly. The movement caused her to wince, and Sherlock took another step back. “Would you like some ice? A nurse? Medicine?”

 

“Ice,” John said, recognizing the panic rising in Sherlock’s eyes. The Consulting Detective needed a minute to gather his thoughts. “Why don’t you go to the nurse’s station and ask for some? I’ll stay here with Molly.” Sherlock nodded his head and spun on his heel, relieved to have a task to accomplish.

 

Just as he reached the door, he heard Molly say, with a tired and gravelly voice, “Such a fine arse.”

 

“What?” he squeaked, spinning around, looking at his drugged pathologist. John had a hand clamped over his mouth, trying not to laugh. Molly just smiled dreamily at him.

 

“Don’t know who you are but your arse is fantastic.”

 

John glanced between Molly and Sherlock, the giggles trying to escape from his mouth as he noticed the pink on Sherlock’s cheeks; he was blushing! Sherlock cleared his throat and took several steps backwards, trying to keep his backside from Molly’s view. “I’ll get the ice.”

 

If his voice was a bit higher than usual, John didn’t say anything.

 

When Sherlock was out of the room, Molly turned her head to look at John. She blinked sleepily at him and whispered, “I don’t know who you are either, but you’re handsome too.” Her eyes closed again, and John had a feeling that she was drifting off to sleep.

 

“Thank you, Molly,” he whispered, wishing he had his phone so he could have recorded that whole exchange.

 

 


	16. Double Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from nonny: Sherlolly Warstan double date!

Double dating was for teenagers.

 

Dating was for teenagers.

 

A lot of the things Sherlock had to go through while courting Molly Hooper felt like something teenagers would do.

 

But Sherlock Holmes found himself observing Molly Hooper and John Watson as they conducted a post mortem on a dummy in the middle of some sort of film studio. If he was going to be honest with himself (and only himself—John, Mary, and Molly didn’t need to know), he was having the time of his life on this “double date”.

 

When Molly brought up the idea of teaming up with John and Mary for an evening, he was resistant. They ate meals together all the time, why did they need to specifically plan something special? But Molly was adamant, claiming that John specifically planned something special, and after wheedling for a few days, Sherlock gave in and agreed.

 

He was expecting dinner at Angelo’s with small talk about children, cases, and the weather. That’s what people did on double dates, right? What made this any different? Other than the fact that he knew John and Mary almost as well as he knew himself, and they were all close friends?

 

He was definitely not expecting Mycroft Holmes to repay a favor to John (something about his brother accidentally eating shellfish and John being there to save his life—the story was buried in the yard of his Mind Palace, not that easy to recall) and create the most puzzling photo scavenger hunt he had ever been on.

 

In fact, this was his first scavenger hunt that wasn’t murder related. And Mycroft made sure that not all the clues were easy to decipher. For instance, they had to solve a binary code clue (which was actually a difficult riddle hidden in the code—it took him fifteen minutes to solve), a difficult riddle about a complicated paragraph missing the letter “e”, and currently, he and Mary were watching Molly and John work together to solve this unfortunate dummy’s murder.

 

Mary elbowed Sherlock in the side, and he slowly looked at her. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

 

He cracked a smile, but didn’t respond; that was enough of an answer for the ever observant Mary Watson, anyway. Then he returned his attention to an excited Molly as she jumped up and down, tossing her goggles over her shoulder. The clattered to the floor loudly. “We figured it out! Now what?”

 

“Write it on this dry erase board and I’ll take a picture and send it to Mycroft.”

 

Molly and John huddled together over the dry erase board, and after a moment, Molly held it up proudly, with John’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. “ ** _DEATH BY BELLADONNA POISONING_** ” was in Molly’s pretty, fluid script. Using his mobile phone, Sherlock snapped a picture and sent it to his brother.

 

“It was a pleasure working with you, Doctor Hooper,” John said playfully, holding his hand out for her to shake. Molly took it firmly, and could barely keep the giggles at bay as she said,

 

“Same, Doctor Watson.”

 

As Sherlock waited for his brother to respond, he helped Mary, Molly, and John put away the dummy and clean up any mess they may have accidentally made. Then the quartet left the film studio and returned to Mary’s car. It was already 8:33, John and Mary only had their babysitter until eleven, and they were all starving. “How many clues do you think we have left?” Molly asked, sliding into the seat beside Sherlock. They were taking up the backseat, while John and Mary sat up front.

 

“None!” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone. “Mycroft sent me his address. We’re going to collect our prize.”

 

The short car ride to Mycroft’s flat was filled with chatter about their interesting evening, and sooner than Sherlock was expecting, they arrived at Mycroft’s. He tried not to be disappointed by the imminent end to their evening; he was actually having fun! He led the small group to the front door, and without bothering to knock, he opened the door and stepped inside.

 

And much to everyone’s surprise, for completing the photo scavenger hunt, Mycroft prepared for them a delicious meal of roasted chicken, potatoes, and peas.

                                                                                                                                                          

If Sherlock _had_ to be honest with himself, _again_ , he would claim that Mycroft Holmes was almost as good of a cook as Mummy.

 

(But no one needed to know about that.)


	17. Mattering the Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short drabble about how Sherlock cares.

After years of working with Molly Hooper in the morgue, Sherlock learned the signs Molly typically displayed when she was going to have a bad night—nightmares, upset stomach, racing mind, things of that nature—and more often than not, those were the nights Sherlock desperately needed a bolt hole.

Because Sherlock knew on those nights, instead of thinking about all the bad in the world, Molly focused on making sure he was comfortable in her bed and that he didn’t need tea or water.

Every single time, Sherlock managed to convince Molly to sit on the edge of her bed and act like a sounding board…and within 30 minutes, she would be slumped over, fast asleep, and no longer at risk of suffering during the night.

Sherlock would gently help her into bed, careful not to wake her. He would sit up for the rest of the night to make sure she didn’t have a nightmare…and sometimes he falls asleep, curled protectively over her.

Because in the end, Molly Hooper was the one who mattered most.

 


	18. Destroyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I absolutely love your writing!! Here's my prompt: Sherlock's really angry bc he can't solve a case so he snaps at molly and tells her he made a mistake by entering a relationship with her. Then he realizes what he's done and tries to get his pathologist back. Angsty with fluffy happy eending! Maybe some crying Sherlock...

This case was tearing Sherlock apart from the inside out. It was a kidnapping of a baby—toddler, really, from St. Bart’s crèche.

 

No one saw anything. But everyone _heard_ it; the child screaming, pounding footsteps down the corridor.

 

The director only stepped into the hall to talk to disgruntled parents for _two minutes_.

 

That was all it took for someone to sneak into the crèche undetected and take the child. Thankfully the child screamed bloody murder (just like she was taught to do when strangers bothered her) or else who knows how long the kidnapping would have gone undetected?

 

But there was no evidence of the abduction, just the child’s screams of terror.

 

No ransom note, no messages, nothing.

 

It was as if little Scarlett Watson decided to scream and then disappear into thin air.

 

\-----

 

The day started out as any normal day. Mary Watson was home sick with a sinus infection, tucked into bed with a hot water bottle and mindless telly playing as a distraction. John didn’t want to leave two year old Scarlett home with her ill mother, and the case he was working on with Sherlock only required him to go to St. Bart’s, so he took Scarlett with him and dropped her off at the crèche.

 

Just like the hundreds of times before, John dropped Scarlett off after kissing her cheeks, forehead, and hugging her tightly; he thought Scarlett was safe inside the confined area that was surrounded by security and intelligent adults.

 

Sherlock met him right outside the lab, instructed him to go through the lab results and analyze the findings while he studied dirt samples under the microscope. They were hardly settled when Molly burst into the lab, slamming the door open and shouting, “John, it’s Scarlett!”

 

\-----

 

They say the first 48 hours after abduction are the most important, and with every hour afterwards diminishes the chances of finding the person alive.

 

Sherlock knew this.

 

 _Everyone_ knew this.

 

And the pressure of finding Scarlett, his Goddaughter, his best friend’s child, one of the most important people in his life, had Sherlock nearly tearing his hair out in frustration. After interviewing all the witnesses _twice_ , scrutinizing what little video evidence was left behind, and traveling the path the kidnapper took from St. Bart’s for two blocks—before the bloodhounds lost the trail—over a dozen times, Sherlock had nothing to show for his efforts other than the kidnapper wore cheap cologne and had a vehicle waiting for him two blocks away without identifiable plates on the car.

 

John and Mary were strong and silent, actively participating in the search for their missing daughter, but giving Sherlock the space he needed to think.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock had taken over an empty classroom in Bart’s, needing to be close to the crime scene. It was officially the 72nd hour since Scarlett’s kidnapping, there was still no ransom, no message from the kidnapper, and no new clues.

 

Photographs were taped to the walls with corresponding names, all possible enemies of either Sherlock, Mary, or John, and each name was systematically getting checked off by Mycroft and his men. Empty coffee and tea cups littered the room, as well as half eaten sandwiches, bags of crisps, and old takeaway.

 

Sherlock’s mood was quickly dwindling and he was losing patience and getting more and more frustrated as each second passed. That morning, he banned any individuals from entering the abandoned classroom, including John and Mary. Mary’s sniffling from her cold was grating on his nerves and distracting him, and he couldn’t bear to feel John’s stare on the back of his head anymore. Even the police weren’t allowed to enter, Lestrade acting as liaison for everyone’s sake. He promised to only communicate via text, leaving Sherlock alone to work the case and be in his Mind Palace.

 

The sound of someone softly clearing their throat tore Sherlock from his Mind Palace, where he was grasping at straws, and returned to the present. He whirled around from the evidence board and saw Molly Hooper standing in the doorway with tea and a sandwich.

 

He meant to gently turn her away. Tell her he couldn’t possibly eat at this moment because Scarlett Watson was kidnapped and needed to be found before something terrible happened to her. But when he opened his mouth, what came out instead of kind words was harsh shouting. His frustrations spewed from him until he was heaving for breath, his voice hoarse, his hands clenched tightly, and his fists shaking. The tea was in a puddle on the floor, as well as the sandwich, and Molly was staring at him wide eyed, her jaw slack, and trembling.

 

He didn’t realize he effectively told Molly to _“fuck off and never bother me again since you are obviously so unintelligent as to bother me when I’m trying to work!”_ until after she fled from the room and John marched in with a disapproving frown on his face. But Sherlock had bigger things to worry about than his sudden and gut wrenchingly awful breakup with his girlfriend.

 

\-----

 

Exactly 118 hours after Scarlett Watson went missing, the kidnapper finally got into contact with Mary. From the phone call alone, Sherlock was not only able to deduce the location of the kidnapper (the sounds of Big Ben chiming in the background, and then the service weakening meant the kidnapper was above ground and then went underground—only option was the tube—and the tube station closest to the clock that could be heard that clearly was Westminster), he was able to deduce that the kidnapper had Scarlett with him (hushed murmurings and a strained voice meant he was dealing with an upset child or there was one close to him). With that information, he knew that Scarlett was alive, but he wasn’t sure if she was hurt.

 

Then things rapidly started to fall apart.

 

The kidnapper contacted Mary directly via her mobile phone which was odd because John was the face of the investigation under Sherlock’s strict rules; even if the kidnapper wasn’t a direct enemy of Mary, broadcasting her face across the telly and the papers could put everyone at risk.

 

Second, the kidnapper yelled at Mary for being so hard to contact. His wild rambling clued in Sherlock and everyone listening that the kidnapper expected Mary to be back in her office a week and a half ago. Mary was just patient and listening very carefully to the kidnapper, apologizing when it was the proper thing to do, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. She didn’t have an office, just a nice desk and a bit of an area to herself in the waiting room of John’s practice.

 

While the kidnapper was yelling, Sherlock was typing away at his phone, looking up any Mary Watson’s in the immediate area. It didn’t take him long to find a Mary M. Watson, a solicitor in Central London who dealt primarily with divorces and child custody cases. Mary Margaret Watson, not Mary Morstan Watson.

 

Two teams dispatched from the hospital, one being led by Lestrade and Sherlock to Westminster and the other to find and bring in Mary Margaret Watson. John and Mary reluctantly driving to the hospital closest to Westminster to wait for their daughter—there was too much of a risk for the two of them to meet the kidnapper.

 

\-----

 

Five full days after Scarlett Watson was kidnapped, she was returned to John and Mary covered in dirt, a few bruises and scrapes, and exhausted. Sherlock didn’t leave their side until his friends were at the A&E and Scarlett was getting checked over by a doctor. With a heavy police presence guarding his friends, he went to the waiting room.

 

Sherlock was swaying on his feet as he waited in the middle of the emergency room, not sure where he should go from here. He was numb, his brain hardly functioning as he tried to calculate the last time he slept, ate, or even sat down. When cases were like this, Molly Hooper was always at his side, pushing tea, water, toast, and biscuits down his throat so he was never running on empty.

 

“Oh!” he gasped, as his brain finally began to reconnect. Three days beforehand…he broke up with her.

 

“Come on, come on, before you collapse.”

 

Sherlock turned his head just slightly, his eyes unfocused as he looked at Lestrade, who appeared out of nowhere, or at least for Sherlock it was out of nowhere. (He had been sitting in the waiting room since they brought in baby Watson.) Lestrade had a tight grip on his elbow, holding him firmly as he continued to sway. “Molly…”

 

“At home.”

 

“Need to see her.”

 

Lestrade hesitated for a moment. He obviously heard about the fight that happened between them. Sherlock tried to scrounge up his face and look indignant, but he just managed to look a little more broken. Regardless, it worked, and with a sigh, Lestrade nodded his head. “I’ll take you.”

 

Getting to Lestrade’s car was a bit difficult since Sherlock’s legs were refusing to work properly, but eventually they got to the DI’s car in the car park. He all but collapsed into his seat, and Lestrade leaned over him and buckled his belt. Then he traveled around the car and climbed in on his side. Sherlock stared blankly ahead as Lestrade drove.

 

Sherlock was startled from a light doze as Lestrade said, “We’re here mate. Do you need help up?”

 

It took a few seconds for Sherlock’s mouth to form the words he needed to say. “No. I’ve got a key.” He dug through the pockets of his Belstaff, searching and searching for the spare key Molly had given him after his fall. He found it in his inside pocket. Without another word, he climbed out of the car and stumbled up the walk to Molly’s flat.

 

When he reached her door, he turned around and stared at Lestrade for a moment. With a sigh, he waved to Lestrade and he returned his wave.

 

Walking up the stairs to Molly’s flat was torture, and Sherlock gripped the banister tightly as he rocked on his feet. His stomach was cramping and he felt a bit dizzy. He stopped at her door and raised his fist to knock, but then remembered that he had a key. He carefully unlocked the door, ignoring the proper protocol of walking into an ex-girlfriend’s flat. He really should have rung her first or given her some kind of warning for his arrival.

 

His main objective was to try and talk to Molly. But he would understand if she just threw him out of the flat like he deserved. She could kick him and slap him too, because he deserved much worse.

 

He closed Molly’s door behind him and paused, listening as she talked softly. Her flat was dark, the glow of her telly on mute illuminating her sitting room. He assumed she was talking on her mobile, and had no doubt that she was talking to Lestrade who was probably still sitting outside the flat. He stumbled towards her sitting room just as she dropped her phone in her lap and looked up at him.

 

“Molly,” he choked out, his knees buckling. Before he knew it, he was crumbling to the floor, landing hard on his hands.

 

“Sherlock!” Molly cried. She was halfway out of her armchair before Sherlock looked up, roaring,

 

“No!”

 

Molly froze in her seat, and Sherlock took a few steadying breaths, and then crawled across the room to Molly. His brain was pounding and he was feeling faint, but he had to beg for forgiveness. He had to crawl and grovel to this woman until she could find it in her heart to forgive him.

 

He struggled to sit up on his knees when he reached her side, grabbed her hands as tightly as he could, and bowed his head until his forehead was resting on her thighs. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m sorry. Forgive me, please. _Please_.”

 

He jumped when he felt droplets of moisture land in his hair. “Oh Sherlock,” Molly whispered. She kissed the back of his head and then pressed her head against his. “Always, always.”

 

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head but refusing to lift it, partially because he didn’t feel strong enough. “I have to beg. I need to be punished. I treated you horribly—”

 

“I’m not saying you didn’t treat me horribly, but I understand why you were distraught. Promise me you won’t lash out like that again. That’s all I ask, Sherlock. Promise me.”

 

He hesitated for a moment, wondering _‘Is this all she needs? How can she be so selfless?’_ He licked his lips and swallowed thickly. “I promise,” he croaked. He lifted his head enough to kiss her hands before resting his forehead against her knuckles. He still couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to so.

 

“Thank you.” Molly pressed another kiss to his head and then sat up. “Greg is running to the shops and he’ll bring up food soon. Then I’ll help you bathe and you can sleep.” She managed to slip one hand out of his grasp and gently card her fingers through his hair, the two of them quietly waiting for Lestrade to return.


	19. Forgetful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from bigworldlitttleme: Hey, I just thought of another prompt - Sherlolly this time instead, but Sherlock being out on a case and realising he's deleted something important accidentally to remember details about Molly and/or his family instead

“Oi! Sherlock! You’d know the answer to this, right?” Lestrade shouted across the crime scene, forcing Sherlock to look up from the body that was at his feet. With a sigh, he and John made their way over to Lestrade, who was standing with his arms across his chest and Sally Donovan at his side, both looking confused.

 

“Why can’t chinchilla’s get wet? That note you found on the body was about the death of a wet pet chinchilla.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

 

He _knew_ he knew the answer; pet hair, and specifically dog hair, was one of his specialties. One never knew when that information would come in handy, so he always kept it at the forefront of his Mind Palace.

 

He snapped his jaw shut, blinked a few more times, and then opened his mouth again.

 

“I—uhh—hmm.” He licked his lips, furrowed his brow, and jammed his fists into the pockets of his Belstaff before doing an about face and returning to the body.

 

“I guess we’ll just look it up then!” Lestrade called after him, his brow furrowed in confusion at his reaction. He exchanged glances with John, who just shrugged his shoulders, and then pulled out his phone to look up information on chinchillas.

 

\-----

 

Late that evening, long after the case was solved and a light dinner with John at Angelo’s, Sherlock returned home, quietly tiptoeing up the steps and avoiding the creakiest stairs as he went up. He tore off his Belstaff and scarf, hanging them up neatly, and then he toed off his shoes, lining them up beneath his coat.

 

His flat was dark, just as he expected, and he began unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way to the bathroom. Irritation at his lack of pet hair knowledge was still coursing through him, which was why he accidentally tugged on a few buttons too hard, and they popped off, scattering around the bathroom. He ignored them and just disrobed quickly. After a very quick shower, he crept into his bedroom, careful to not wake his very pregnant wife who was sleeping soundly, for the first time in what seemed like weeks, surrounded by pillows.

 

He slid on a pair of soft pajama bottoms, forgoing a shirt, and as carefully as possible, he slid into bed. Even if he was angry at himself for his Mind Palace failing, he didn’t want to wake Molly up. Unfortunately, he bumped her as he was getting beneath the duvet, dislodging a pillow that was supporting her back. Sherlock swore softly and held completely still, hoping Molly would go back to sleep.

 

Things weren’t really working for him that day. “Hey babe,” Molly murmured sleepily.

 

“Sorry.” Sherlock pressed an apologetic kiss against her cheek. With it getting so close to her due date, it was getting harder and harder for her to fall asleep, stay asleep, or even get comfortable during the evenings. The little sleep she could get was very precious.

 

“…fine,” she murmured, reaching around and grabbing the pillow and tossing it over the bed. “Spoon me. Helps.”

 

“Right.” Very carefully, Sherlock slid closer to Molly until his front was pressing against her back. Molly sighed in relief and it wasn’t long before her breathing evened out and she was back to sleep. Sherlock also breathed a sigh of relief before resting his head on their shared pillow and taking a deep breath from Molly’s loose hair.

 

And suddenly, it all came back to him; Lestrade’s question about chinchilla hair and Sherlock’s inability to answer the question was back at the forefront of his mind. He realized why he couldn’t answer the question.

 

He deleted the information!

 

The reason why he deleted the information? He needed to learn how to braid, because Molly was so exhausted during the beginning of her pregnancy that she could hardly muster the energy in the evenings to braid her hair after her showers. For a few days, Molly stayed up longer to dry her hair, which cut into the sleep that she desperately needed.

 

After watching several… _hundred_ YouTube videos, Sherlock pulled Molly into the living room, had her sit down at the table, and after a few practice runs, he French braided her hair as if he had been working on the skill for years rather than most of the day (his own hair had been French braided more times than he was willing to admit…as well as Mrs. Hudson’s).

 

He distinctly remembered going through his Mind Palace that day, searching for information that could be deleted.

 

And honestly, who really needed to know about proper chinchilla fur care? Sherlock scoffed quietly, nuzzled closer to Molly, and rested one hand on her big belly, relaxing to her soft breaths and the occasional movements from their baby.

 

All the irritation from that morning’s case got, deleted, and Sherlock left a message on his Mind’s answering machine to text John about why he didn’t know about chinchilla fur; he was sure his best friend would get a good laugh out of the story.


	20. Non-Skid Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from starlight-falls: Unconventional Uses of Duct Tape!

Loud, sudden crashing sounds were common in 221B Baker Street.

The wailing of a 13 month old child after the sounds occurred were not.

Sherlock Holmes leapt off Mrs. Hudson’s sofa and dashed out of her flat, taking the stairs to the upstairs flat two at a time. He skidded to a halt when he saw Molly Hooper sitting on her bottom, cradling Scarlett Watson in her arms, cooing softly. “You’re alright baby girl. Sweetheart, you’re fine. Shhhh…”

“She fell again?” Sherlock crouched down beside his wife, running his fingers through Scarlett’s soft blond curls.

“Slid across the lino and lost her balance. But she’s going to be fine. Just gave herself a fright, isn’t that right, sweetness?” Molly asked, and baby Watson nuzzled her face against Molly’s neck, taking a few shuddering breaths. Molly rocked back and forth, still cooing to the baby. After a moment, Scarlett pushed herself away from Molly and turned in her arms, reaching for Sherlock.

Because no one gave better cuddles than Uncle Sherlock (other than mummy and daddy of course). Sherlock easily took her into his arms and pressed a kiss smack dab in the middle of her forehead. In response, she pressed a slobbery open mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and got a strong fistful of his hair.

Sherlock carefully extracted her fingers from his hair as he stood to his feet. He paced around the kitchen, rocking Scarlett until she was completely calm again. “Now we have some duct tape here…” Molly said, getting back to her feet. “And my sister swears up and down that a bit of tape on the bottom of your socks will add enough traction to stop sliding around everywhere.”

“Anything is better than putting trainers back on her.”

The two exchanged horrified glances. Putting shoes on Scarlett was equivalent to going to the doctor for immunizations; painful, unnecessary, and frightening in the eyes of the child. There was no quicker way to meltdown mode than John or Mary even mentioning shoes to the baby. 

Scarlett was just drifting off to sleep, her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, when Molly found the tape. She tore off two pieces and then very gently attached them to the bottom of Scarlett’s feet. “Scarlett, let’s try the new modifications to your socks,” Sherlock murmured, very carefully putting the child on the linoleum in the kitchen. For a few moments, Scarlett stood absolutely still, as if she were afraid of the floor. She blinked sleepily up at Sherlock and Molly before rubbing her eyes and lifting one foot hesitantly. She took one wobbly step, and another, and another, until she was back to her unsteady run around the table.

Molly caught Scarlett on her second circuit, tossing her into the air and catching her before pressing kisses all over her face and neck, relishing in the little girl’s squeals. “If we can get her to nap now,” Sherlock began, putting a guiding hand on the small of Molly’s back and leading her to his bedroom, “she might sleep until John and Mary are back.”


	21. A Little Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from icecat62: Have Sherlock, his head in Molly’s lap, telling about a time he was beaten in school by bullies just because he was smarter and younger than his classmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I saw the prompt, I realized it was similar to a WIP I’ve been working on for…maybe two years. So I wrote this up and eventually I’ll add it to the WIP and post the whole thing.
> 
> This is in the same universe as The Right Time. You don’t have to read that to understand this. Just know Sherlock and Molly have three children, Penelope, and Oliver and Liam (twins), and Molly’s pregnant with their fourth baby in this particular fic.

“How is she?” Sherlock asked, lifting his upper body up enough for Molly to slide onto the sofa. Once she was sitting, he rested his head in her lap, twisting until his forehead was pressing against her protruding belly.

“She just fell asleep,” Molly murmured, carding her fingers through his hair. “She didn’t want to play in the bath and she didn’t want a bedtime story either.” Molly scratched at Sherlock’s scalp before resting her hand on the back of his neck, cradling him closer. “Do you think she’ll stay up there all night?”

“Probably not. I don’t think she’ll make it to midnight on her own.”

Molly hummed in response, and he felt her shift a bit before her fingers were in his hair again. “She’s too young to be bullied. I got picked on occasionally, but I was never really bullied until Uni. My peers used to call me Morbid Molly because I excelled at pathology, and I liked it.”

“Children are cruel,” he murmured, turning his head a bit so he could peer at Molly through one eye. 

“And you’re not morbid. You’re Magnificent Molly, brilliant at everything you do.”

Sherlock tilted his head more so Molly could press a kiss to his forehead. “We’ve already had sex today, Sherlock. I don’t think I have another go in me, so stop buttering me up.”

“I’m not buttering you up. I’m being honest.” He rolled over so he could see Molly with both his eyes. He was trying to scowl at her, but a small smile graced his lips when he saw her grin. He picked up each of her hands and pressed a kiss to them.

As they settled again on the sofa, this time Molly cupping Sherlock’s cheeks, her grin softened. “You were bullied when you were younger?”

He nodded his head, reiterating, “Children are cruel.”

“Can be cruel. Penelope, Liam, and Oliver will never be like that. And I’m sure John and Mary’s boys will be upstanding children as well.”

Sherlock nodded his head. “Of course they will, look at their parents! Our children will be raised with good morals, unlike the swine that have invaded the school system in London.” Sherlock sat up abruptly and twisted so he could look at his wife, rage glimmering in his eyes. “What seven year old child should come home from school and ask her parents if they think she’s stupid?! Just because our daughter can’t read as well as her classmates does not mean she’s stupid! She’s just as brilliant in maths, science, and music as her peers! And in some cases, better than her peers, because you and I both know she is gifted musically. Just because she has struggles in certain areas doesn’t mean the children who are the same age as her should push her down, call her names, or pull her hair! How has nothing changed since I’ve been in school?” he shouted, his chest heaving.

“Shhhh…” Molly cooed, tugging him back down into her lap. “We don’t want to wake the boys, do we?” she murmured, running her hand down his chest, hoping the repetitive motion would calm him.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He dropped down into her lap and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s just…I was bullied from when I stepped foot into school until…well, it’s gotten better lately.” He squeezed his fists at his sides and shook his head. “I was smarter than my peers, and at first I got bullied for being a teacher’s pet, and my school and parents decided I would be better off in a higher grade. Do you know what it’s like to be five years old but in year three of school? No one liked me, and I wasn’t on the same level as my classmates emotionally or intellectually. 

“It was very easy to pick on me because I was sensitive, no matter how hard I tried not to be. The kids, they used to push me around and hit me because I knew all the answers and I could figure things out that they couldn’t. I bruised easily; like a peach. And I was scrawny and bony, which made me an even bigger target. I went to four different schools before I was ten years old, after that, I just stopped telling my parents about what was going on at school; I was tired of my Mum worrying about me. By the time Redbeard died, I felt doomed because no one in the entire world understood me except my dog.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Molly murmured, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see her crying. He shakily reached up and wiped away her tears. “I’m so sorry, babe,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand. 

His lips quirked in a half smile at the rarely used pet name. “But Penelope won’t be bullied like that. Because we’ll send her to a special school or—”

“Deduce the parents until they are so ashamed of themselves that they will take their children out of Europe and to the depths of Hell where they belong.”

Molly snorted but shook her head. “Depths of Hell? Really?”

“I don’t care where they go, as long as they leave Penelope alone.” Sherlock turned and nuzzled her abdomen. “They will leave all our children alone, or else.” He kissed her stomach and sighed contentedly when Molly’s hands were back in his hair. 

Molly and Sherlock lapsed into silence, Sherlock taking comfort in Molly’s soothing presence. The only sounds in the flat were the clock ticking above the fireplace and Toby purring contentedly on Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock felt his eyelids growing heavy, and he grunted when Molly tugged on his hair lightly. 

“Somehow whenever Penelope sleeps with us, the boys catch wind and we end up with all three of them in bed. Might as well get as much sleep as possible before that happens.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock got off the couch and after assisting Molly up as well, he began turning off the lights and making sure the doors were locked. By the time he was making his way to the bedroom, he could hear rustling coming from above, which meant Penelope was up. Not bothering to shut the door because he knew his eldest daughter was on her way in, he rushed to the bed and jumped in, spreading himself out. 

It wasn’t long before Molly joined him after cleaning her teeth, and Sherlock curled around her like an octopus. 

“Mummy?”

“Come on Penelope,” Molly called, lifting the edge of their duvet. 

And just like that, Sherlock had his two favorite girls cuddled up to him, and he knew sooner or later he’d have his boys too.


	22. Bee's Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from nonny: Sherlolly please. Sherlock ignores Molly after their first night together then suddenly messages her a million times trying to get her attention. He didn't realize that it would hurt her for him to not text after and she sets him straight.

_'I just had a long conversation with John.—SH’_

_‘What I did was a bit not good.—SH’_

_‘I didn’t realize that I was hurting you.—SH’_

_‘I’m sorry. —SH’_

_‘Molly, I truly am sorry. —SH’_

_‘I needed time to process what happened between us, and I had no intention of disappearing to my Mind Palace for three days.—SH’_

_‘I’m not using. Lestrade can have another drugs bust and I can wee in a cup for you.—SH’_

_‘There’s CCTV footage of my flat. Mycroft put it up even though I told him it was unnecessary. You can see I was on the sofa the whole time. I promise, Molly, I wasn’t doing anything illegal.—SH’_

_‘Please stop being angry at me.’_

_‘Molly, please answer me.’_

_“Please.’_

_‘I promise I will work harder.’_

_‘I won’t leave again.’_

_‘Or I can leave you alone.’_

_‘I see I have hurt you beyond repair. Apologies, Molly Hooper. I did not mean to hurt you, but I can see that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, or so they say. I will ask John to collect my things from your flat, and I’ll work at Bart’s around your schedule. Thank you, Molly, for being kind to me when I did not deserve it.—SH’_

Molly Hooper scrolled through her text messages, her eyes widening the more she read, until she saw Sherlock’s last text. Her phone had been on silent beneath her thigh as she was sprawled out on her sofa, and she had no idea that Sherlock had been texting her for a solid two minutes an hour beforehand.

Yes, she was upset and hurt that Sherlock had disappeared for three days after the first time they had sex, but not for a moment did she think he was up to no good, getting high or on the streets. She had a gut feeling that he was just processing, and even though it hurt, she knew she would get the chance to explain to him that what he did was a bit not good, and he should refrain from doing it again.

She quickly found his name in her recent calls and raised her phone to her ear, expecting him to answer on the first or second ring. When it rang, and rang, and rang before going to voicemail, Molly decided this was a conversation that would be better in person anyway.

It didn’t take her long to change from her lounging clothes to tan trousers and a jumper. She quickly braided her hair and then slipped on shoes before dashing out of her flat.

One quick tube ride, and she was on Baker Street, nearly running to Sherlock’s door. She didn’t bother knocking, just unlocked the front door and closed it softly behind her. She took the stairs two at a time and was only a bit out of breath as she slipped into 221B Baker Street, her eyes on Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair, head in his hands, staring blankly ahead. She could see his mobile was on the sofa, which was probably the reason why he didn’t answer it.

“Did you honestly just break up with me through text message?”

Sherlock jumped, his head snapping towards the doorway where Molly was still standing. “Because yes, you disappearing after we had sex for the first time was a bit not good, but sending me 15 text messages in two minutes, ending with the weakest breakup that has ever been said to me is a million times worse.”

She stomped towards him, and she could see fear shining in his eyes, and she imagined that he was coming to terms with the fact that she was going to slap him (which she wasn’t). She saw him flinch as she reached him and she paused for half a second, her hands on her hips, before she lowered herself into his lap, straddling him and putting her hands on his cheeks.

“I love you, and even though you were an arse for three days, not calling me or even sending a text, I don’t want to end our relationship. Do you really want to?”

“No,” he whispered, wide eyed.

“Great, because you’re the best cuddler I’ve ever cuddled, and I don’t want to give that up. And the sex was good too.”

The sound of someone snorting caused Molly to whip around, and she saw John Watson standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was sliding his coat on, and Molly could see him fighting a smile. “I’m just going to go,” he said, before waving and exiting the flat through the kitchen.

After a moment, Molly turned back to Sherlock, her cheeks tinged pink. “I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

“And I’m glad you enjoyed the sex. I did too.”

“Good to know.”

“And…I…I care for you deeply, so much that it frightens me, and I was…worried that you didn’t enjoy yourself the other night and I didn’t want to lose you. I’m a bit rusty…and you were having quite a lot of sex with Tom, and I know I don’t compare to some of your previous partners, but—“

“Sherlock?” Molly whispered, interrupting him.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t care that you’ve only done this a few times before, and please, don’t compare yourself to Tom or anyone else. If I wanted someone else, I would be with them, right? I want you. Only you.”

Molly pressed a chase kiss to his forehead. Sherlock slid his hands to the back of her neck, holding her gently in place. “I am sorry.”

“I know. Just next time, if you need space or to think, just send a text, okay? And my bedroom is still a bolthole. You can stay and I won’t bother you.”

“Okay.”

They stayed that was for a little bit longer, before Sherlock slowly dropped his hands. He slid his fingers beneath the hem of her jumper and murmured, “I’ve heard makeup sex is the bee’s knees.”

“Oh, my God!” Molly said, giggling, before climbing out of his lap. She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of his chair and towards his bedroom, where Sherlock was determined to show her what makeup sex was all about.


	23. Assumptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from nonny: i'm really sorry you had a crap day sweetie :( here's my prompt to cheer you up! Teenlock, Molly thinks Sherlock's cheating on her bc he's been avoiding her but he's actually planning a super romantic thing for their anniversary! Fuffity fluff

 

“Who would want to be with me, anyway? I’m not anything special—”

“Molly don’t say things like that!”

Molly waved her hand dismissively at Mary Morstan, trying to will away her tears in vain. “It’s true. I might be smarter than the other girls in my year, but they all have breasts and senses of humor and friends. What can Sherlock see in me that he can’t also see in them?”

“Molly, just wait a second—”

“I mean, all I do every day is go to school, go home, study, and help Mum take care of my dying Dad. I haven’t even spent time with Sherlock outside of school in God knows how long. I don’t blame him for looking elsewhere.”

“Molly, stop this instant!”

“I can’t!” Molly screeched, jumping to her feet. She rubbed at her eyes, wishing the tears would just stop falling. “I have to go, Mary. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just—I need to go home. You know, homework and Dad had visitors this afternoon so he’s exhausted and Mum can’t do it all by herself!”

Even though Mary was shouting for Molly to stop, Molly spun on her heel and strode out of the carpark and made her way home.

\-----

Molly had no intention of unloading her feelings on Mary that afternoon, but after running into Sherlock and Janine in the corridor when they were both acting very…well, there was no other word than suspicious, Molly couldn’t help but feel like she had finally lost Sherlock Holmes, which was her biggest fear since the school term had started. With applications for university, her father’s health at a steady decline, and examinations all happening at the same time, she had to dedicate less and less time to her relationships.

And honestly, Janine was very pretty, and very smart, and she truly was a great person. If only Sherlock could have broken things off properly before moving on. And as Molly made her way home slowly, she tried to think of all the times she had seen Sherlock in the last few weeks, how odd he had been acting. _‘Has he been trying to break things off for a while now?’_

Molly stopped suddenly when a familiar white car pulled up beside her.

“Molly Hooper, get in my car. Please! It’s going to rain, and I won’t see you walking in it!”

Molly looked at the sky, frowning at the ominous clouds above her. Then she reluctantly turned to the car and got in on the passenger’s side. She dropped her bag between her knees and pressed her forehead against the window. At least it would only be a two minute car ride.

“Thank you Janine.”

The car was still idling in the middle of the road, but Molly refused to turn her head to look at her. This was humiliating! To be picked up on the side of the road on one of the lowest days of her life, and her and her boyfriend’s first anniversary to boot! “Molly, don’t for one second think you are not the love of Sherly’s life. You are everything to him, do you understand? He will do anything for you, and he would never hurt you. You have saved his life more times than anyone else on this planet, including his stupid brother!” Molly finally turned her head to look at the young woman sitting beside her.

Janine reached over and grabbed Molly’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I know things are fucking awful, and I’m so sorry. I would never—”

“It’s okay,” Molly interrupted, squeezing her hand. “I’m just really tired and emotional.”

After a moment, Janine said, “We’re going to get an ice cream. If that’s alright…do you need to be home right away?”

Molly thought for a moment, and then she shook her head. “I can stay out for a bit. I should be home before dinner to help my Mum, though.”

“Excellent.”

\-----

An afternoon out with Janine, eating ice cream, talking about school and university, and about their plans for the future was exactly what Molly needed. She felt a weight she was unaware she was carrying lifted off her shoulders, and when Janine dropped her off, she was reluctant to get out of the car.

“We’ll do this again, Molly. Because hanging out with you without the boys has been the best afternoon I’ve had in a while! And I’ll get Mary to come along too. A proper girl’s night out!”

After saying their goodbyes, Molly made her way to her parent’s home. She was hoping that her mother wouldn’t be upset with her being home later than usual, even though her Mum encouraged her to go out all the time, to live the life like the rest of the teens her age.

Molly walked into the house, closing the door softly behind her. It was unusually quiet, normally the telly would be on or the radio, but all she could hear was the crackling of the fire. “Mum? I’m home.

“In here sweetheart!”

Molly followed the sound of her mother’s voice to their sitting room, where she was startled to see her father sitting up on the sofa, pillows supporting his back, blankets piled high. Her mother was sitting on the floor beside him, and perched on the armchair beside the sofa was Sherlock Holmes.

“Molly,” Sherlock said, standing to his feet.

Molly looked between the three people in the room. “What’s going on?”

Molly’s father reached out for her, and Molly went straight to him, taking his hand. He patted her hand gently and smiled at her sweetly. “I was just having a word with your young man, Molly.”

“You were?”

“Yes. Such a sweet boy.”

“Mr. Hooper…” Sherlock said, and Molly glanced at him to see his cheeks tinged pink.

“Hush. You are sweet, coming here to talk to a dying old man. You’re very special, Sherlock Holmes. And you better treat my baby right, or else…I’ll haunt you.”

Molly found herself crying and giggling, shaking her head slowly. “Dad,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “Stop it.”

After a few moments of silence, Molly stepped away from her father and went to Sherlock, where he pulled her tightly to his side. “What’s going on, then?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I’ve come here to ask your father for your hand in marriage.”

Molly’s knees buckled and she stumbled to the side, but Sherlock’s strong arms caught her. Vaguely she could hear her parents actually _laughing_ at her, but all she could do was stare wide eyed at her boyfriend.

“I needed his permission; it was very important to me that he knew that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and damn those who think we’re too young.”

Molly blinked slowly, looked from Sherlock to her parents, who were smiling at her. When she looked back at Sherlock, he was on one knee, a ring box in his hand. “Will you, Molly Hooper? Will you spend the rest of your life with an insufferable prat like me? I promise I will spend every waking moment making you happy, or at least trying to.”

Molly glanced from Sherlock to her parents again and almost burst into tears at the tears that were streaming down her father’s face. He nodded his head just once, and Molly took that as his blessing.

“Yes,” she croaked, “Yes, absolutely yes!”

\-----

Molly stood in front of her home, admiring the night sky as she waited for Sherlock’s father to come around. It was late, much too late for Sherlock to walk home, and no cabs ever ventured around this late at night. After a moment she looked at her hands, admiring the glittering new engagement ring on her ring finger.

During dinner that evening the whole tale came about, starting with Sherlock and John working a few private cases while John was on holiday from St. Bart’s, meeting with a detective by the name of Lestrade who worked for Scotland Yard. Sherlock was saving up money for the ring.

Mary and Janine came into the story by helping Sherlock pick out rings after school. Molly felt terrible for suspecting Sherlock straying, but she knew by the way he held her that evening while they ate dinner on the floor of her sitting room surrounding her parents that he didn’t hold it against her.

Her father had shown a tremendous amount of energy that evening, alert, laughing, and more animated than he had been in weeks, which had Molly’s gut wrench, because she knew the end was near. His cancer was terminal, and she had read that right before someone passes away, they might get more energy, have a sudden will to survive. And Molly saw the way her father looked at them when he thought she couldn’t see him; he was sad that he wasn’t going to be there for very much longer.

Tonight was more than Sherlock asking for her hand in marriage, it was about closure, letting her father know that she was in safe hands, that he was going to take care of her for the rest of her life. They talked about their futures, possible children, fantasized about what they might look like, what they might do for a living, how their children would make her father so proud.

Molly jumped when she felt Sherlock’s hand on her shoulder. “Molly?” he whispered, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Molly spun quickly, burying her face in his chest. “Thank you, so much.”

“Anything for you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. They stayed that way until Mr. Holmes stopped in front of the house, and even then, Sherlock held Molly for a few moments longer, wanting to make sure she would be alright. She was the one who ended up pulling away first, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I’ll be more romantic tomorrow,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers, “I’ll serenade you in front of the school. I’ll bring flowers. Snog you relentlessly just like in the films. And my parents are going out of town for a dancing competition this weekend, so you can come over, and we’ll celebrate our anniversary properly.”

“Tonight was perfect, and I don’t need anything else…but flowers would be nice,” Molly said, kissing him one last time before stepping away. “Goodnight. I love you.”

Sherlock picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Goodnight,” he whispered. “And I love you too.”

 


	24. Overdressed for the Occassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from thestarlitrose: I'm very sorry your day was bad, I completely understand having to deal with kids that are rude and go unpunished after doing stuff. Mine are tiny but I've had several bite me and believe me it irked me to no end. Anyway, if you are still taking prompts I'd like one between Toby and Sherlock. Toby knocks over one of sherlock's experiments leaving the previously ginger cat spotted with purple (or another color). In order to fix this Sherlock gives Toby a bath, hilarity ensues.

Bathing Redbeard was fun! His dog was a gentle and kind soul, and loved to hop into the tub and play in the water. It was Sherlock’s responsibility to give Redbeard his baths between grooming visits, and it was a great bonding experience between the two.

Thirty years later, Sherlock stared in horror at the formerly ginger cat sitting in John Watson’s old chair, oblivious to the fact that he was now a violent shade of blue.

The powdered blue concoction that had been on the table was washable, which was why Sherlock didn’t think twice about putting it in a container with a secure lid. He regretted that decision the moment he stepped into his flat after going downstairs to steal a few biscuits from Mrs. Hudson.

“Toby…” he whispered, and the cat looked up at him with wide yellow eyes, as if he was in pain. “It shouldn’t be hurting, don’t look like that.”

Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. It was an indisputable fact that cats _hated_ baths. That if an owner even thought about bathing it, a cat would hide in fear.

And he had less than two hours before Molly was expected to be home.

“Right. I need…I need cat washing gear.”

\-----

Sherlock tore through his closet, throwing disguise over his shoulder, old suits, things that really needed thrown away. Eventually he found his old motorcycle riding jacket. The leather was tough but protective, exactly what he needed. His riding gloves were shoved in the pocket too.

Soon Sherlock found himself stripped of his robe, wearing his old leather jacket over his pajama top, leather gloves, and a bright yellow rain slicker. His curly hair was shoved inside a beanie, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck for protection. His face was exposed to the elements, namely Toby’s claws, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. His bottom half was adorned with running tights, his pajama bottoms, and the wellies he usually wore when he was mucking about in rubbish or the mud.

He glanced at his alarm clock and swore. Exactly one hour until Molly was due to be home.

“Toby!” Sherlock called, stepping out of the bedroom. “Time for a…feeding!” He was hoping that Toby would be perched on the chair just as he left him, his eyes just as wide in holy terror as any cat accidentally dyed blue would have.

And just like Sherlock was expecting, Toby was nowhere in sight.

But a blue cat couldn’t be that hard to find, right?

And exactly 37 minutes later, Sherlock found Toby hiding behind an old stack of newspapers. “That’s it! I’m cleaning this flat! I’m throwing all of my things away, and all that will be left is Molly’s ghastly jumpers and a few trinkets. I mean it, Toby!”

On his way to the bathroom, Sherlock stopped in the kitchen to grab Mrs. Hudson’s purple washing up gloves. He shoved them in his pocket and resumed his journey to the bathroom, and the bath that could end his life.

Sherlock placed Toby on the closed toilet lid and then spun around to slam the door shut. Then he stared at the cat who was once again staring at him. He couldn’t waste time staring at the cat, he had a half hour to bathe him and get him warm and dry. Who knows how long it was going to take to get the animal inside the tub?

Sherlock filled the bath with water, hoping that the water was warm. Then he searched for a bottle of shampoo. He wasn’t going to use his own shampoo, and God forbid he used Molly’s—frivolous Molly Hooper dropped a pretty penny on her haircare products! That left the tear free baby shampoo left over from when John had to give Baby Watson an emergency bath after a horrendous…overfilling of a diaper, to put it lightly.

Sherlock shuddered at the memory. Babies _shouldn’t_ be able to defecate like _that_. The _horror_. The _smell_!

Sherlock was brought out of his Mind Palace by Toby’s piteous cries. He blinked rapidly and then looked at the cat. He moved from the toilet and was by the bath, peering ominously at the water. “Better now than never,” Sherlock said, tiptoeing the best he could in his wellies.

Just as Sherlock stepped behind Toby, the cat’s head snapped towards him. Sherlock launched at the cat and picked him up, thankful when he couldn’t feel Toby’s claws piercing through his gloves and coat.

Toby clawed at him, and Sherlock didn’t know what else to do other than drop the cat unceremoniously into the tub. As the cat was going towards the water, Sherlock had the sudden horrifying thought that he was going to drown.

Molly was going to leave him because he drowned her cat.

And then something particularly amazing happened.

Toby landed in the water, and instead of jumping out he began to…swim. “You like the water?!” Sherlock asked kneeling down by the tub. Toby meowed and swam a few laps around the bath, the water turning blue as the powder washed away from his fur.

Sherlock tore off his rain slicker, his leather coat, the washing up gloves and the riding gloves, his wellies, and finally his pajama bottoms, leaving him in his running tights and soft pajama shirt. Then he knelt down by the tub and picked up the baby shampoo. He poured a bit into his hand and coaxed Toby a little closer.

When Toby realized Sherlock wanted to wash him up, he swam and began purring, rubbing his face against Sherlock’s scarf protected neck.

The bath that was supposed to be the most stressful and painful thing he’s done all year ended up being easier than asking Molly to marry him! He laughed at the absurd sight of Toby the cat enjoying his bath! Cat’s weren’t supposed to be like this. This was just one of the many things about Toby Sherlock had to add to his Mind Palace.

And when he thought that, he heard Molly’s voice ring out from the bedroom. “Sherlock, why are your clothes everywhere? And where’s Toby? And why are there blue paw prints all over the kitchen?”

Sherlock smiled to himself, leaned down to press a kiss to the top of the purring cat’s head, and stood to his feet. He grabbed a towel from the rack on the back of the door, let the water down the drain, and scooped up the sopping wet cat. “Let’s greet our Molly, Toby. Hopefully she’ll find this more funny than infuriating.”

With Toby purring in his arms and nuzzling his chest, Sherlock made his way from the bathroom to the bedroom to meet his fate.

\-----

Molly took one look at Sherlock and burst into giggles, and that was all Sherlock needed to know; Molly wasn’t going to be mad at him at all.


	25. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from miss-whiddlesmort: Hi, if its not too much problem, could you write a sherlolly prompt based on MCR's songs Early Sunsets over Monroeville or the light behind your eyes, please? Thanks!

> _“Sometimes we must grow stronger and_  
>  You can be stronger when I'm gone  
>  When I’m here, no longer  
>  You must be stronger and  
>    
>  If I could be with you tonight  
>  I would sing you to sleep  
>  Never let them take the light behind your eyes  
>  I failed and lost this fight  
>  Never fade in the dark  
>  Just remember you will always burn as bright”
> 
> _—My Chemical Romance, Light Behind Your Eyes_

* * *

 

 

Molly Hooper pulled the hood up on her jacket and made sure her scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck. It was raining and she had been in the morgue all day so she was already chilled to the bone.

 

She opened the door to leave St. Bart’s and ducked her head down, shielding her face from the rain. She only took a few steps away from the hospital before the rain suddenly stopped falling on her. She looked up and saw a man she didn’t recognize holding an umbrella over her head. Her heart started racing until she noticed the black vehicle sitting at the curb, the window rolled down.

 

At once she recognized Mycroft Holmes sitting in the vehicle. With a shuddering breath, Molly changed the direction she was walking and went with the man to Mycroft’s car.

 

\-----

 

Her first clue that something terrible had happened was that Anthea was not in the car with them. The second clue was that Mycroft didn’t greet her with his typical sneer or casual greeting of, “Evening Miss Hooper”, because nothing rubbed her the wrong way more than Mycroft calling her “Miss Hooper” instead of “Doctor Hooper” or even “Molly”.

 

“Our ride will be a long one, I’m afraid. Please alert your neighbor that she needs to feed your pet.”

 

And with that, Mycroft turned his attention to his phone, leaving Molly to her own devices. She couldn’t see anything through the windows, and had a feeling that the purpose of their tinting was to ascertain that she wouldn’t be able to see where they were going.

 

Two hours passed in silence in the car before it finally pulled to a stop. “Leave your mobile in the car, and please follow Anthea inside. She will take you to him.”

 

“So this is about Sherlock?” Molly asked. But Mycroft didn’t answer, just leaned over and opened her door. Before she got out, he offered her his umbrella and she took it.

 

Molly made her way to Anthea, who was standing in front of a rather plain looking cottage in the country. Molly didn’t bother looking around. Mycroft made sure that she wouldn’t be able to get here, so why did she need to memorize the location? She smiled tentatively at Anthea, but she didn’t return the look. She just opened the door she was standing in front of and beckoned Molly to follow her inside.

 

The first room to the left had a roaring fireplace and one single chair. Standing in front of the fireplace was Sherlock Holmes. “I’ll be in the security room, Sherlock. Don’t do anything stupid, or I will shoot you myself,” Anthea warned, before continuing down the hallway.

 

Molly and Sherlock stood in absolute silence before Molly finally edged closer. “What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you since—since your _relapse_ , and nearly four months later you have me kidnapped? For what?” She tried to hide the hurt in her voice by masking it with anger. “I have things to do tonight, Sherlock. I don’t have time for this or for you.”

 

When he turned around to look at her, Molly almost stumbled backwards. His skin was pale, his eyes overflowing with tears, and his nose shiny. She could see his lips trembling. His eyes held more pain than the night he faked his suicide. “I am going to die,” he finally said after a few tense moments of silence. “I just wanted to let you know now and not…not when it happens.”

 

Molly clutched her chest as if that would stop her heart from pounding. “What do you mean you’re going to die? Are you sick?” She took a few steps closer to him, examining him with a medically trained eye. “Have you told John? Who is your doctor? Mike specializes in cancer—”

 

“A doctor can’t help me—you can’t help me.”

 

Molly felt like she couldn’t breathe as she shook her head. “Is it terminal? Is that why…?”

 

For a moment Sherlock was quiet, and then he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m not sick, but my new mission will kill me within six months.”

 

Molly shook her head, refusing to believe what he was saying. She watched him as more tears spilled from his eyes and he did nothing to stop them. “Why are you telling me this?” she finally managed to ask.

 

“Because I’ve failed, and I need to face the consequences. Because I’m going to lie to John and I need you to be strong. Because it’s going to be hard at first, but it’ll get easier, better than last time. And because it’s not fair for me to die without telling you that you’ve never stopped counting, never. Don’t forget that.”

 

“Sherlock, stop it!”

 

Sherlock closed the distance between them and cradled her cheeks in his hands, staring into her eyes. “Do not let this take the light from your eyes, understand?” After a moment, Molly nodded her head, tears finally spilling from her eyes. “You must be strong for yourself, for John and Mary, for Greg Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.” Molly watched as his eyes closed and he dropped his head until his forehead was pressing gently against hers, his hands still on her cheeks. “I know you can do this for me Molly. You’re the strongest woman I know.”

 

Molly took a heaving breath, swallowed thickly, and then whispered, “I love you.” The sound of Sherlock choking on his sobs almost broke her, but instead of crying, she moved until she had one had on the back of his neck and one hand on his cheek, holding Sherlock gently as he wept.

 

He didn’t manage to say it back by the time Anthea returned to the room and told them Molly had to leave, but the gentle kiss he pressed to her forehead was more than enough for Molly. With one last squeeze of his hand, Molly moved away from him, wiping at the last of the tears falling from her eyes. “I’ll be strong for everyone, including you.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head just once, and Molly felt his eyes on her as she exited the nondescript cottage in the middle of the country and went back to Mycroft’s car, her head held high and her shoulders straight.

 

 


	26. The Proudest Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from weasleygirl928: Sherlock holds his and Molly's son for the first time

The pregnancy was perfect up until the last few weeks.

 

The labor was horrendous and painful.

 

And the delivery was…not so good.

 

But Sherlock Holmes had never been more proud of Molly Holmes. Things didn’t go according to plan, but his beautiful wife kept her head (better than he did) and performed admirably. Those were his words and he knew he couldn’t say them outside his own Mind Palace because “performing admirably” was not something you said to a woman after she was in labor for 37 and a half hours. He kissed her repeatedly and told her he loved her, which was much better.

 

And their son, who made things a bit difficult the last few weeks, was born perfect and healthy, and Sherlock couldn’t be more proud of his son, even though all he had done was breathe and cry. Those were important firsts for a newborn after all.

 

“Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Hmm? Yes?” he whispered, first looking at his wife to ensure that she was still resting, and then at the nurse standing the door.

 

“Your son’s initial tests have all been positive, and he’s ready for another attempt at a feeding and for some one on one time with you and your wife.”

 

“Well…she’s resting now,” Sherlock began, but the nurse just smiled at him warmly.

 

“Then this is optimal time to get to know your son.”

 

And before Sherlock could protest some more, another nurse wheeled his son into the room, leaving his incubator right beside him. “Do you need another lesson on how to pick him up and hold him?” she asked.

 

“Uhhh…no. No. I watched my wife and listened very carefully earlier.” Even though much of the delivery was a blur, Sherlock remembered distinctly the first few things the doctors and nurses told Molly. And because the delivery was so hard on Molly, their son had to be taken away after only a half hour to give Molly some much needed rest. Sherlock stood up carefully and leaned over his son, smiling at his bright pink skin, his wrinkles, and his sleepy eyes, which were blinking at him.

 

His son was awake. Did that mean he was going to cry? But the baby continued to blink and stare at Sherlock. Then with trembling hands, he picked up his son for the first time. The nurses in the room watched Sherlock, but he “performed admirably” as he held his son against his chest and began to sway back and forth.

 

“If he starts to fuss, that means he’s just a bit hungry. If Molly is feeling up to it, you can try breast feeding again. There’s a lactation nurse on call and she can come here if you have any questions.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, before very carefully sitting back down in his rocking chair. Other than a bit of whimpering and snuffling, his son settled back down almost immediately, and Sherlock didn’t even notice when the other nurses left the room.

 

His eyes were only on his precious son.

 

His chest literally ached with the love he felt for this little, pink, warm human being, this little baby that he and his wife created, that struggled to get into the world, but came fighting and screaming. Sherlock cradled him to his chest, pressing soft kisses to his head. After a few minutes, he realized he was crying, but he just didn’t care. His son’s eyes blinked slower and slower until he was asleep, and Sherlock spent the next while just listening to him breathe.

 

He remembered the days when he could only hear the heartbeat, and now look! His son was sleeping in his arms, swaddled in blankets and hats and warmth and love. He couldn’t help but press another kiss to his son’s head, whispering, “I love you so much.” He gently stroked a stray lock of hair that managed to escape from his tiny blue cap. It was soft and dark brown, just like the hair on his own head.

 

There was a soft knock on the door and then it cracked open. “Bad time?”

 

Sherlock shook his head and he heard the soft footsteps of his best friend walk into the room. He felt John’s hand on his shoulder, and John gave it a squeeze. “He’s beautiful, mate. Absolutely beautiful.” Sherlock couldn’t do anything but nod his head fervently. If he opened his mouth to speak, he knew he would just start blubbering. “And she’s resting? Everything alright?” John had been in the delivery room with them, more for Sherlock than for Molly, so he was well aware of what her labor and delivery was like. He left only a few minutes after he was born, giving Sherlock and Molly their privacy. Again, Sherlock just nodded his head.

 

“You’re doing better than I did when I held our little girl the first time. I was sobbing so hard I thought I would need oxygen.”

 

“I’m on my way there,” Sherlock managed to choke out. John gave his shoulder another squeeze before taking a step back.

 

“I told Mary I would just step in for a mo’. We’ll both be here tomorrow evening. Give Molly our love.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head, his eyes still on his sleeping son. When he heard John halt at the door and take a deep breath, he managed to tear his gaze away from his son for a few moments. “I am so incredibly proud of you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he said firmly, his voice wavering only a bit. “Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered. It took a moment, but eventually John pulled himself together and left the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock looked back at his son and smiled. “Uh oh,” he whispered, “Obviously both your Daddy and Uncle John are very emotional around newborns. You’ll be swimming in our tears eventually.”

 

One last kiss to his son’s sleeping head, and then Sherlock began to rock gently and hum softly, waiting for either his son to wake up hungry, or his wife to wake up from her nap.


	27. The Coffee Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from beautiful-addictions: i have heard your call and have come to save you from your distress with a little fluffy(?) highschool!sherlolly prompt: molly is being bullied and picked on by other girls. after one particularly bad prank from them, sherlock (who's been watching from the sidelines since the start) swoops in and gives them a taste of their own medicine. he then comforts her (albeit awkwardly), and then asks her to go out for coffee with him to make her feel better. FLUFFFFFF!!!!!!!

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t understand how people could be so vicious. Girls who have known Molly Hooper since she was seven years old have suddenly turned their backs on her ten years later as they’re about to finish secondary school. Girls who used to have slumber parties with Molly were suddenly the girls who made fun of Molly for being smart and morbid, only because she wanted to be a doctor, specifically in Pathology.

He just didn’t get it.

And he couldn’t just blame the girls. There were boys in their year who were just as malicious, and Sherlock had seen do and say some pretty terrible things to Molly too. And he tried his best to take care of them behind the scenes so it wasn’t so obvious to Molly. He would deduce which students smoked on school grounds, who stole, who cheated, and he was the very first person to let a responsible adult in on it. But today, they went too far.

Someone said something about Molly Hooper’s very ill father.

He didn’t know what they said, but he knew who said it and he knew he was going to take care of it. Before the end of the day, the two girls and one boy would no longer be enrolled in their school. 

But before that happened, he needed to find Molly Hooper and…as John Watson called it, “Save the Day”. He heard whisperings that Molly had hidden herself away in the orchestra room which didn’t much sense, but that was where Sherlock was going to go to look for her. Especially since everyone who was in orchestra knew that Mr. Douglas always left school halfway through the day to teach at a primary school therefore the classroom was going to be deserted. 

Sherlock carefully pushed open the door to his second favorite room in the entire school and was astonished to see Molly sitting in his chair staring straight ahead. 

“Uhhh…Molly?”

Molly’s head snapped towards him as she hastily wiped her tears away. “Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her and tilted his head. “This is my space; I should be asking you that.”

“Oh! Umm…just needed a moment.”

Sherlock moved across the room and slowly sat down beside her. After a few seconds he placed a hand between her shoulder blades and pattered her awkwardly. “Umm…Are you okay?”

Molly sniffled and nodded her head. “I’ll be fine. People are just…cruel.” 

Sherlock nodded his head, because he knew from experience how cruel people could be. He didn’t say anything else, because Molly was still pulling herself together, and if he wanted to be honest, he had no idea what he should do anyway. While he waited, he thought about the classes they skivved off that day. It wasn’t normal for Molly to miss any classes, but Sherlock skipped his last class of the day so often, he was more absent than in attendance. And unsurprisingly, he was doing better than everyone else in the class.

After a while, Sherlock glanced at his watch, surprised to see that the school day was over and had been for six minutes. “School is done for today.”

“Okay.”

“I am in the process of taking care of the situation.”

Sherlock watched as Molly’s brow furrowed and her lips turned down into a frown. “What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“It seems like your bullies are cheaters and thieves and keyed the Headmaster’s car. They’ll be out of here as soon as I turn in my evidence.”

“Sherlock!”

“Molly, they deserve it! Mostly for treating you like rubbish, and partly for breaking the law.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then when Molly took a shuddering breath, Sherlock realized his hand was still on her back. He stared at said hand, wondering what the proper protocol was. Should he keep it there since Molly didn’t say anything? Should he drop it to his side? He debated the pros and cons of his hand placement for several seconds before he finally dropped it to his side. “Do you…do you want to get a coffee?”

“Coffee?”

“Yes. There’s a coffee shop around the corner. My brother can pick us up and take you home.”

Molly stared at him and then she nodded her head, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and smiling shyly at him. Sherlock returned the small grin and then he stood up, offering her his hand. “After we stop in the Headmasters office, of course.”

“Of course,” Molly whispered, giving his hand a squeeze. Sherlock knew for a fact his ears, cheeks, and neck were red, but he didn’t care because he was about to go on a coffee date with sweet and smart and pretty Molly Hooper.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
